


Drowning in a Daydream

by EvilOfEden



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Inquisitor!Noctis, Mage!Prompto, Multi, No betas we die like nugs, Rogue!Ignis, Warrior!Gladio (obviously...), and there WILL be crossover ships!, but all the main inquisition cast will appear, more characters and relationships added as needed, more tags added as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-25 07:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9809723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilOfEden/pseuds/EvilOfEden
Summary: Noctis doesn't remember how he and his friends arrived in Thedas, or how this mark got on his hand. Now he's not sure what's more important: being Insomnia's Prince and returning home, or becoming the Inquisitor of Thedas and rescuing this world that needs him.





	1. World on Fire

The first thing Noctis notices upon waking up is how cold he is. Not the usual cold of someone stealing his blankets, but a foreign chill that creeps under his skin and makes his eyes sting. Worse yet, this isn’t the hotel room, or even a tent, but a dark room made of stone walls and a locked wooden door. There are no windows; the only light is the orange glow of burning torches on the walls, but no warmth seems to come from them.  


Wait, there is another light. He looks down at his hands, first internally recoiling with shock at the sight of iron bindings around his wrists and ankles. They look even more archaic than this cell, but that’s not what concerns him. It’s the harsh green glow emanating from his left hand. He realizes as he stares at the glow that his hand aches, and there’s a strange spiral of a mark buried in his palm.  


The mark pulses, and Noctis bites back a yelp of pain. It feels like a daemon’s burrowing through his hand, hollowing out the flesh to make a cozy den within his bones.  


No one reacts to his pain, because no one else is in this room. That’s almost stranger than the mark itself; there’s always someone watching him, from servants in the castle to his guardians, those friends who still concern themselves over the slightest thing. Their absence, the silence surrounding him, is worse than the cold.  


Noctis shakes off the last vestiges of sleep and tries to figure out the situation. Though more medieval than expected (especially the smell, by the Six!), this is clearly a prison, and he’s in handcuffs. His memories of how he got here are fuzzy; he remembers running, yes, but from what? They must have been ambushed, and he was knocked out somehow. Drugged by a tranquilizer dart, perhaps. And this thing on his hand…some new torture tactic? Magic he’s never heard of? There are too many questions, and nowhere near enough answers.  


He hears a voice from outside his cell, soft and melodic. “You’re sure you must question him, Cassandra? We have already interrogated the others.”  


“I need to hear what he has to say for himself,” answers a sterner voice, thick with an accent Noctis doesn’t recognize. The door is thrown open as two women stride in, guards at their heels. One woman in violet sticks to the shadows and watches him, her face difficult to read under her red hair and violet hood. The other woman is all sharp angles, from her armor to her cheekbones, the scar on her face and the sword at her hip. She looks down at him with a mixture of rage and disdain. Her hand stays close to her hilt as she paces.  


“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”  


She talks like a verbal slap to the face, a blow Noctis doesn’t have an immediate counter for. The armor here is nothing like the Imperials—more like something out of history books, or a fairytale gone wrong. Who are these people—if they want him dead, why haven’t they already done so?  


“The Conclave is destroyed,” the sharp woman—must be Cassandra, by the voice—continues. “Everyone who attended is dead…and in their place, we found you and your so-called guardians.”  


Noctis wracks his memories for what this Conclave might be, but he draws a blank. The only events he knew about were his upcoming wedding and the treaty signing. No plans had been made to visit whatever this Conclave was—and any such attack would be an open declaration of war by whichever side initiated.  


“You think we did it,” Noctis surmises. He can’t help but raise a skeptical eyebrow.  


Cassandra grasps him by the wrist and forces him to look at the green mark on his hand. “Explain this.”  


He tries to pull away, but her grip only tightens, and he can already feel his wrist starting to bruise. His friends would’ve had their weapons drawn at the sight, were they here. “Where are my guardians?”  


“Answer me first,” she growls through grit teeth.  


He snaps back, “I’m as baffled as you are.” But his mind’s been racing through ideas too, in a vain attempt to piece everything together. “It’s no magic I’ve ever seen, and I have no idea how it works. Even if I did, I wouldn’t use it to hurt innocent civilians. It’s not like I’m…” he trails off before he can mention the Niflheim empire; he doesn’t know where this group’s loyalties lie. “Do you even know who I am?”  


“Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, from a land none of us have ever heard of,” The woman in violet explains, her voice calm and still melodic despite her surroundings. “Believe me, we checked. But of all the names to come up with on the spot, Insomnia is quite a poor one, wouldn’t you say?”  


“I didn’t name my country, if that’s what you’re asking.” Her answer only confuses him more—are there really places so far away that they haven’t even heard of his home, his bloodline? It was impossible; it was in all the legends…but here they were. “Whether or not you believe me, I’m a prince, not a tyrant who would hurt people that don’t deserve it. Now, where are my guardians?” Even he has trouble keeping the panic from creeping into his voice.  


“We’re keeping an eye on them,” The violet woman answers. She nods at Cassandra, who finally lets go of Noct’s wrist. “Two of them are in the valley, trying to help us keep the situation contained. The apostate is close by, and guarded. You will see them all soon.” Noctis doesn’t even try to understand what that means. He’s just relieved they’re alive.  


“First, you tell us what you do remember,” Cassandra orders, her hand back to its resting place on her hilt. “What happened, before you woke up?”  


Noctis tries to focus, but his thoughts keep swimming out of reach. “We were…preparing to travel to Altissa, from Galdin Quay. Got a ferry that could escape the blockade. I remember the sound of a radio waking me up…” The women only look more confused; Cassandra furrows her brow, tightens her grip on her hilt. Noctis shuts his eyes. Why is it so hard to remember? What should’ve come next was whatever was being reported on the radio, his friends talking, but…  


“I must have blacked out. Next thing I remember, I was being chased. Somewhere dark. Not sure what was after me, no daemon I’d ever seen before, and then…a woman?” He racked his brain for features, some sort of identity. All he got were more blanks. “A woman, in white. She reached for me.”  


Even as he remembers it, it sounds like a dream. But something shifts in Cassandra’s face, and she nods to her violet companion. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take him to the rift.” The violet woman, Leliana, wastes no time in leaving. Cassandra works on unlocking the iron bindings, though she first ties a rope around Noct’s wrist.  


There are a million questions Noctis could ask. He settles on, “So, what happened to this Conclave? I mean, how did all those people…”  


“It will be easier to show you.” The manacles gone, she helps Noctis to his feet and out of the cell, the guards close behind. The cold seems to emanate from the walls to sink under his skin, a sharp contrast from the open-air warmth of Galdin Quay. More so once they see the outside, where the ground and buildings are layered in snow. Noctis can imagine Prompto snapping pictures while gushing about all the snow, Ignis scolding him for not putting on a jacket, and Gladio already preparing a snowball without even bothering to put on a shirt first. Their absence aches more than whatever strange magic is eating through his hand.  


But then he steps outside to horizon corrupted by a noxious green rift, and Noctis quickly realizes that the magic infecting him must be the same as whatever’s tearing up the sky. The rift reminds him of a gaping wound that bleeds energy as it spreads across the clouds. Bits of rock and debris float around it, and if Noctis looks closely, he can see things dropping out of the rift. His gaze darts to his hand, as if it’s about to do the same.  


“We call it the Breach,” Cassandra explains. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.” She looks at him, as if the explanation will trigger another memory about what transpired.  


“The world of daemons?” His voice cracks despite his attempt to sound calm. He knows the terror of daemons all too well. Like the marilith that nearly killed him as a child, or the iron giants and bombs that ambush those who journey too late into the night. If they were able to travel freely to this world, even in the daytime… “We have to find a way to close that, immediate—”  


His words dissolve into screaming and he falls to his knees, for the mark on his hand pulses again and crawls farther along his skin. The strange tendrils of energy wrap around his wrist like ivy. Overhead, the Breach extends its reach across the heavens.  


Cassandra kneels in front of him, looking him straight in the eyes once the pain subsides. Her tone softens. “Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads…and it is killing you.” Noctis supposes the news should shock him, but on top of everything else, it feels numb. “It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”  


“It just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?” He can’t help the sarcasm—it’s the only thing that’s keeping him together. He shoves the fear as far into the back of his mind as he can: he’s got a mission now, and it’s life or death. “Let’s get going. That Breach isn’t going to close itself.”  


Seeming to approve of his answer, Cassandra helps Noctis to his feet and through the town. He wishes he could just warp up to the Breach and take his chances, but he knows he can’t throw a sword that far—and even if he could, his hands are currently tied. The townsfolk around stare at him like he’s a criminal—they have to, Cassandra explains, for he and his friends are their only suspects, and they need someone to blame for the Conclave. For the death of Divine Justinia, who was trying to bring peace to the mages and templars (whoever they are).  


Even the brief description reminds him of Luna, the Oracle he is to marry for the peace treaty between their fractured nations. He can’t help but wonder if she’s okay; thinking about her pulls at the foggy parts of his memory, that twinge in his chest of something having gone wrong.  


“Noct, is that you? Noctis!”  


Finally, a familiar voice! Up ahead is a bridge, and running toward them is none other than Prompto. No one tries to stop the blond as he runs up to Noctis and wraps him in a tight, life-affirming hug. “You finally woke up! Everyone’s been worried sick, and then your hand kept trying to choke you, and—I’m just glad you’re okay!”  


“Good to see you too.” Noctis pulls away and gives his youngest guardian a once-over. He doesn’t appear to be harmed, and someone had given him a coat to wear over his patchwork outfit—the coat’s a bit too long and the fabric’s starting to thin, but it seems serviceable enough. What’s odd is how most of the townsfolk shy away at the sight of Prompto, even as he smiles and practically bounces from the excitement of being reunited with his friend.  


Someone at the gate—not a guard, but a figure in red and white robes—yells at Cassandra about keeping an eye on ‘that monster’ and the apostate. Cassandra ignores him as she ushers the boys along.  


“What’s an apostate?” Noctis mutters as they pass.  


“See? Told you he wouldn’t know either,” Prompto says to Cassandra, crossing his arms in victory—or just hiding how cold he still was. “Long story short? We can’t summon our weapons, guns don’t exist in this world, but on the plus side, I don’t need your flasks to use magic! I can just point and…wa-bam!” He points to demonstrate, and Cassandra flinches at his example, but nothing happens. “I wasn’t actually going to…well, yeah. I’m sure you’ll see soon. It’s pretty cool, yeah?”  


“I fail to see how this is a positive,” Cassandra grumbles as they leave the bridge. “An apostate is a mage that has not been trained in a Circle. One that risks bringing demons into the world.”  


As if summoned by their very mention, glowing green figures (much like the Breach, turned into mockeries of the human form) approach across the frozen lake below them. Cassandra motions for the boys to stay back before she charges in with a sharp battlecry, shield in front of her and sword ready to strike.  


Noctis tries to summon a sword on instinct, but as Prompto had explained, no weapons come. Searching his surroundings, Noctis notices an abandoned cart down below, the green light of the Breach glinting off a blade in the rubble. He offers his hands to Prompto and explains, “There’s a sword down there, and I’m not leaving her to fight alone.”  


Prompto quickly sets to work on the knots. “I tried that too, but there’s only one other apostate here, so no one wanted me firing off magic without him to keep an eye on me. He went off ahead with Ignis and this…okay, going to sound crazy, but know those stories with elves and dwarves?”  


“My father used to read me fairytales before bed, yes.” Noctis watches as Cassandra quickly dispatches the glowing demons below; even though the style is different from his and Gladio’s, it’s clear to see that she’s well-versed with her blade. “Don’t tell me…”  


“We’re totally in a fairytale world. That apostate I mentioned is an elf, and the other guy with Ignis is a dwarf named Varric. Who, by the way, is totally the only nice guy I’ve met here so far. And he’s got a crossbow that’s—aghh!”  


Prompto’s shout is prompted by a ball of energy whizzing past his head, courtesy of the demons. Noctis slides the loosened rope off and jumps down to the cart to grab the blade buried in the rubbish. It’s nowhere near as fancy as his own swords, honestly a bit on the dull side, but it will get the job done. Before considering what effect his mark might have on his ability, Noctis throws the blade at the nearest demon.  


His arm pulses when he tries to warp. The pain is searing, but doesn’t stop him from darting through space to meet with his blade. If anything, there is extra power to his blow once he collides with his blade and crashes the demon into the ice. The demon dissolves, and its essence floats away toward the Breach as Noctis pulls the blade away from its disintegrating corpse.  


Cassandra’s blade, having cut down all the other demons, points at Noctis. “What in the Maker’s name was that?”  


“Warping. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.” He tightens his grip on his new sword, ignoring the way the light of his hand glints off the blade. “I know how to handle myself in a fight.”  


“Me too!” Prompto cheers as he rejoined them. “Well, I’m new to some of this magic, but it’s still point and fire in the end, right?”  


Cassandra doesn’t waver, and Noctis worries that they’ll face another argument. But her blade lowers as she admits, “It would be careless of me to leave you defenseless out here. Keep your blade, but try not to endanger yourself.” She reaches into a pouch and hands both of them a small collection of glass vials, a reddish liquid swirling inside. “And in case you do, use these to restore yourself.”  


“Wonder how they taste,” Prompto muses aloud as he pockets his. The disgusted noise Cassandra makes in response is answer enough. “Say Noct, that reminds me. Can you still buff these up? I mean, if you can make an energy drink a healing item, then something already meant for healing would turn into a super-healer, wouldn’t it?”  


Noctis almost tests it—but then remembers how his warping was affected by the mark. He pockets his potions too and says, “We’ll test that later. Wouldn’t want to accidentally poison you with…this.”  


Their equipment settled, the boys hurry after Cassandra, striking down more of the ghost-like demons—wraiths, Cassandra informs them—along the way. Prompto contributes to the fight by striking their foes with lightning bolts, aiming with a hand-gun gesture. He cheers until a glare from Cassandra silences him. She’d said something about magic bringing demons into the world, Noctis remembers; so was the Breach, and this mark on his arm, a product of this strange magic?  


He doesn’t get long to think, as they come to an open-air ruin further beset by demons. Down a flight of stairs is a smaller rift in the air, and three fighters are hard at work keeping the demons it spawns at bay. One is a slight figure who looks like he’s foraged for everything on his person, firing magic from the tip of a large staff he wields. A considerably shorter and stockier figure clings to the back, making quips at his companions while shooting his enemies full of crossbow bolts. And in the front of the fray is Ignis, who seems to have borrowed a lance from one of the soldiers. Daggers too, Noct sees as his advisor hits a demon square in the face with the point of a thrown knife.  


Noctis wastes no time tossing his blade into the fray and following suit. He lands right next to his advisor, the duo quickly falling into familiar stances. There are new demons here, darkness leaking from their desiccated forms. The air is even colder around them, as if their mere presence is sucking all warmth from Noct’s body. His blades slices through the demon as if its body were parchment.  


“I’m pleased to see you’re alive,” Ignis says as he tosses a dagger another shade is trying to tackle the apostate elf. This hooded demon collapses in the snow, and the elf buries the sharp end of his staff in the demon’s hidden face. Its corpse dissolves back into the darkness; the elf’s lips curl in disgust before he returns to his spells.  


“You too. Status report?” Noctis phases away from a wraith’s blast of magic (a foul sensation creeps under his skin, but his power still seems to work fine otherwise) and pivots to strike one of the desiccated demons that crept too close. A bolt of lightning obliterates it before Noctis can finish the job.  


“Gladio is with the main forces up ahead. He was alive, last I heard, but the longer the Breach is open, the more demons are able to invade. We have to hurry before they are overwhelmed.” Ignis interrupts himself to stab through another demon with his lance, using the momentum to vault himself upward and, while precariously balanced atop his lance, throw a dagger at the last of the wraiths. He finishes calmly upon landing, “And as I’m certain Cassandra has informed you, it is in our best interest to assist in the efforts against the Breach. Our lives—yours, in particular—may depend on it.”  


Before Noctis can ask how they’re supposed to stop the Breach when it’s so high above them (and this world obviously hasn’t conceived of helicopters yet), the elf grabs his left hand and raises it toward the smaller rift. A burst of green light bursts out of the mark and forces the rift shut. It winks out of existence. The combatants take a deep, silent breath.  


“It seems my theory was correct,” the apostate elf says, letting go of the prince’s hand. “I am Solas, and for what it’s worth, I am also glad to see that you still live.”  


“Considering all the work he put into making sure that mark didn’t kill you in your sleep…” The dwarf holsters his crossbow and wanders over to Noctis, offering up his own hand. “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong. And unless your friends here really were spinning a story, I’m to understand that you’re a prince?”  


“Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, yes.” He shakes the dwarf’s hand with his unmarked one, and then offers the same to Solas. The elf accepts politely.  


“If we are done with introductions,” Cassandra interrupts, “We must hurry to the Breach. There is no telling how much time we have left.”  


“We’ll have to work quickly,” Varric agrees before winking at Prompto and adding, “So if you want to see how Bianca here works, try not to blink.”  


“Absolutely not.” Cassandra strides ahead, motioning for Noctis to follow. “Your help is appreciated, all of you, but—”  


“—But have you been in the valley, Seeker? Your men aren’t in control anymore,” the dwarf argues. His playful voice turns stern from worry, a tonal shift Noctis has heard all too often back at his castle with tensions rising thanks to the Niflheim Empire. “You need me, Cassandra, and the rest of us too.”  


“We will need all the help we can get,” Solas agrees, his tone still calm. “Cassandra, you should know: this magic is unlike any I have ever seen. I cannot imagine any mage having such power.” He faces Noctis and his companions. “Your magic is equally new to me, but it has a different aura from that of the Breach. It is more…protective.”  


“That is the point of it,” Noctis mutters, more to himself than anyone. Sure, it holds power of the kings before him, but his father had always taught him that such power was meant to guard their people. After all, King Regis had used his power to maintain the protective wall around the kingdom for years, even when all his other strengths began to fail him and…  


Something hurts, deep in Noct’s chest. He cannot say why.  


A hand on his shoulder kicks him out of his worries. “C’mon Noct, you’re the star of the show here! We can’t have you lingering behind.” Prompto leans into view and smiles (trying not to let it show when his gaze flickers to the mark, but the shock is there in the brief crease of his eyebrows, the tightening of his hand on Noct’s shoulder). “Besides, have you seen Bianca in action? That’s Varric’s crossbow, and it—she I mean, she’s a neat piece of work!”  


Noctis allows his friend to lead him out of the battlefield to catch up with the others. There are still too many questions, too many things that must have gone wrong to end up here. But for now, there are demons everywhere and a corrosive mark crawling up his arm, and the only way to stop them is to keep moving forward.  


The Breach is waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome to my first full-length fanfic in...at least seven years? Anyway, this project is for fun and practice, and will update whenever I find the time to finish a chapter (I'm usually busy with work and original fiction, and I'm beta-ing this fic myself). But rest assured, it WILL be completed one day, and I hope you all enjoy it in the meantime!
> 
> And worry not: Gladio will appear soon (as will Cullen). And who knows, they might even be safe. Or not...


	2. These Shrouded Temples

The second time they face a rift, Noctis is able to close it on his own. He’s used to controlling magic, coaxing it from the landscape and into a flask, or channeling it through his body to phase out of harm’s way. The method is similar for reaching out with the abyssal energies in his hand to grasp the rift and pinch it shut, even if it feels far more alien. The magic of the mark is wild, lashing out at his body. He almost drops to his knees when it’s done.

“Careful, Noct.” This time, Ignis is the first one at his side, giving the prince a quick glance-over to assess the damage. There are a few scratches from a demon’s claws, but nothing so severe as to warrant a potion. “It seems you’re getting the hang of this.”

“I better be. Breach isn’t going to close itself.” He looks up at the giant vortex overhead, spreading across the skies like an oncoming storm. A crown of stone floats just underneath.

Prompto bounds over and cheerfully states, “I’m sure we’ll Noct it out soon enough!” He winks in acknowledgement of his pun. Behind them, Cassandra makes another exasperated noise, and Varric doesn’t even bother covering up an undignified snort. The reactions alone are enough to raise Noctis’ spirit, if only for a moment.

It is only a temporary reprieve; the forward camp is just up ahead, where Leliana is waiting. They have already cleaved through an impressive number of demons, but they still haven’t reached the Breach yet. If Cassandra and Ignis are correct, Gladio is in the front lines defending against the horde swarming from that giant rift, working alongside a commander named Cullen to keep everyone else safe. Noctis can only hope that’s still true, that his shield hasn’t yet fallen.

“I’m sure Gladio’s still okay!” Prompto chirps, as if reading Noctis’ thoughts. “I’ve never seen anything take him out before.”

“He’s survived you, after all,” Ignis adds. Noctis pretends to be offended, though Ignis has a point; Gladio was trained to protect Noctis and anything that could hurt him—anything that might rival his power. If anyone could stand up to a horde of demons, his shield’s the one with the skills (and the oversized sword) to do so.

Behind them, Solas speaks up. “Something on your mind, Varric?”

“Just wracking my brain about this Insomnia place. Or anywhere else you mentioned, Prompto. None of ‘em sound familiar, and trust me, I know a lot of places.”

“As do I.” Solas strides to meet up with Noctis and his guardians. “Judging by your reactions to the snow, however, I am assuming it is farther south than here.”

“Depends on where ‘here’ is, but I would assume so,” Ignis answers. “Closer to sea level as well. Loathe as I am to admit it, I have never heard of this Ferelden…” He trails off, unable to admit that he’s not even sure if Ferelden is a country or a continent.

Varric picks up where the silence leaves off. “It’s just the strangest thing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you two were from the Free Marches,” Varric gestures to Noctis and Prompto, and then points to Ignis and continues, “and you, you actually sound Ferelden. Except you clearly don’t know what any of that means, do you?”

“I’ve never been to a marsh in my life,” Prompto answers, which only further proves the dwarf’s point. “Though now that you mention it, you guys sound like you’re from Insomnia. I mean, Cassie sounds like she’s from a little farther away, but isn’t that weird?”

“I am sure we can dwell on this later,” Cassandra states, storming past them as they approach the forward camp; Leliana can be heard arguing with someone just up ahead. Cassandra claps Prompto on the shoulder as she passes and adds, “And you, never butcher my name again.”

Varric offers a teasing grin and says, “I dunno Seeker; I kinda’ like Cassie. It suits you.”

She makes yet another disgusted noise before leaving them to check on Leliana.

“You two know each other?” Noctis asks the dwarf once Cassandra is out of earshot. “Like, coworkers or something?”

Varric can’t help but laugh. “Far from it! Only reason I’m here is because part of this fiasco started in my home, Kirkwall. Cassandra tried to pin it on a friend of mine, and brought me here to testify. I set the story straight, but then this blew up in our faces. Literally.”

“That seems to be a common theme, seeing as…” Ignis trails off, grasping for a memory that isn’t there. Noctis knows the same feeling, that something went wrong but he can’t recall what. “We encountered an explosion too recently, did we not? I could have sworn…”

“There was the bomb we fought?” Prompto mentions. He quickly narrates to the others, “They’re like sentient fireballs that keep growing when you hit them, and wait, I might have a picture…”

The thought is abandoned as they catch up with Cassandra at the camp. The air reeks with the stench of death, as nurses and more of those white-and-red-robed figures tend the wounded and wrap up the corpses. Dead bodies are nothing new to Noctis and his friends, apprentice hunters as they are, but there’s something different about a human body, about the familiar smell being corrupted by rot and blood. Noctis tries to ignore it, and Ignis distracts himself by removing his glasses to defog them. Prompto doesn’t manage as well, gagging as he pulls his neckerchief up over his nose to block out the stench.

Leliana says just up ahead, “Chancellor Roderick, this is—”

An older man breaks free from his argument with Cassandra and Leliana, marching right up to Noctis. “I know who he is! As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.” This robed figure has a stern face peppered with stubble, his voice straining as he tries to command authority.  
Noctis isn’t much taller than this chancellor, but he knows how to command a regal presence when he needs to. He bothers to straighten and draw himself to full height, keeping his expression still despite how much his mark hurts. He’s seen his father pull similar feats around unruly politicians since he was a child. “If you know who I am, then you should step aside. I’ve got business here.”

By the Six, he sounds like his father too.

“I will do no such thing for Divine Justinia’s murderer!” Chancellor Roderick does not budge, though it’s easy to tell that his anger is the only thing rooting him. Like everyone else around here, his eyes dart at every flash of light from the Breach, at every loud footfall that could be a demon’s approach. “Until we have elected a new Divine to finish your judgment, you are to remain imprisoned for your crimes.”

Cassandra all but spits, “You are little more than a glorified clerk, Chancellor. A bureaucrat!”

“And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry.” The Chancellor’s eyes narrow as he silently condemns the rest of their party.

“So no one’s really in charge here,” Noctis says, seriously considering just warping past the chancellor and continuing on his way. “I’m closing that Breach first. Then we can figure out who’s taking who to trial.”

He expects the chancellor to argue, but the man finally pulls away. He refuses to meet Noct’s gaze. “Even if you weren’t to blame for this whole disaster, I wouldn’t advise it. Seeker, you must call a retreat. Our position here is hopeless.”

This time, it is Cassandra who is unmoved. “We can stop this before it’s too late, if we hurry to the temple.” The warrior leads the others past the chancellor. “This is the quickest route, and the last of your guardians is waiting. Leliana, bring everyone left in the valley. Everyone.”

They make no haste in leaving. The chancellor can’t help but threaten them one last time as they leave. “On the head be your consequences, Seeker!”

“Pleasant fellow, isn’t he?” Varric says once the camp is out of sight.

“He can’t actually put Noct in jail, can he?” Prompto asks.

Cassandra shakes her head. “He is but one man. Though part of what he says is true—the Divine is dead, as were all her closest successors. The Chantry has no one to lead them now.”

“And in the absence of authority, everyone rushes for power,” Solas concludes. A note of disgust clings to his words.

The Breach pulses overhead, its maelstrom eating up more and more of the sky. Noctis clenches his teeth and tries not to stumble in the snow. He hasn’t felt pain like this since the time the marilith’s blades left him marred and bleeding when he was a child. There’s no blood here—the pain is so white-hot, it feels like anything that might’ve been in his veins has since turned to acid. But after a time, the pain subsides. The mark has claimed his wrist.

They pass other soldiers and Chantry members, and far more corpses than is comforting. Noctis absently searches through his pockets for supplies, hoping to find a hidden Phoenix Down—but what then? There are tens, maybe hundreds of corpses on this mountain; how could he choose one stranger to revive? His fingers wrap around the intricate carvings of the feather-shaped talisman. What if they don’t find Gladio up ahead, but his corpse? What if this mark continues carving its way along his own body, and leaves behind a glowing green husk?

He lets the Phoenix Down settle back in his pocket and keeps moving. There will be time for guilt later if he survives.

There’s a stone doorway up ahead, and before they even see the rift, they see a blast from it knocks a soldier down the stairs. Another warrior is nearly felled by a shade, only for a gigantic blade to cleave through the demon and bring it low. The rescued soldier scrambles away; his rescuer doesn’t wait for thanks, but charges back into the fray.

“Good ol’ Gladio!” Prompto cheers as he aims at a small group of demons that have appeared from the rift. “Solas, can I do a bigger blast to hit a bunch like that?”

“Watch closely.” The elf focuses his energies and points his staff at the ground under the demons. Seconds later, flames arise from the ground and ensnare the demons, setting their bodies alight.

The rest of the battlefield is equally chaotic, demons and soldiers dueling across the ice. Gladiolus is cleaving through the worst of them, alongside a blond swordsman in gleaming armor; the two of them are clearly the most experienced fighters on the field. But out of the earth leaps a new demon, resembling a stretched-out corpse with deadly claws, and it manages to catch the warriors off-guard. The terror prepares to strike, but a flurry of daggers bury into its face. Noctis follows Ignis’ lead and throws his blade into the fray, warping after it and tackling the demon into the ground.

“Where did you—?” the blond warrior gasps as he regains his bearings. Not that this takes long—a charging shade is immediately impaled on the man’s blade.

“He does that,” Gladio answers with a bark of a laugh. “Nice of you to drop in, Noct.”

“Looked like you could use a hand.” 

The duo fall into familiar combat stances, back-to-back as they strike down the demons charging them. Nearby, arrows pin a group of demons, allowing Cassandra to charge in and strike them unaware. The air crackles as a bolt of lightning paralyzes another one of those leaping terrors, which is soon impaled on Ignis’ lance. They make quick work of the remaining foes, and Noctis finds shutting this rift was almost easy. He doesn’t even waver when it winks out of sight.

“So this is how we stop the rifts…” the blond swordsman sheaths his blade and nods at Noctis. “I’m glad keeping you here is paying off. Command Cullen, at your service.”

“Thanks. I’m…also glad I’m not being sent off for execution. Or whatever.”

Gladio’s groan sounds more like the predecessor to an earthquake. “That Roderick guy? Yeah, he wanted the rest of us deported too. Not like we couldn’t take him, but…” His gaze flickers down to the mark. His jaw tightens. “I don’t remember that mark covering your whole hand.”

“It’s been spreading this entire time,” Cassandra explains; she doesn’t waste time with anything more. “We must move quickly. Cullen, is the path to the temple clear?”

“Clear as we’ve been able to keep it. Leliana will meet you there.” He and Cassandra exchange looks of respect before he leaves, pausing to help a wounded soldier to his feet. “Maker watch over you—for all our sakes.” He says it the same way that others back home prayed for the protection of the Six; is the Maker supposed to refer to one of them, or some other powerful force?

There are no more rifts in the way, just ruins of what must have once been an impressive example of masonry. Noctis finds himself reminded of the old history textbooks he read as a child, for this sight has more in common with those dusty tomes than it does anything from home.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Solas tells them, and Varric finishes, “What’s left of it, anyway.”

“This is where we stumbled out,” Gladio tells Noctis, “though you blacked out soon as we stepped out of…wherever we were. No, I don’t know what that place was, or who the woman was either.” This last comment seems directed at Cassandra. Judging by the veiled glares they shoot each other, any earlier interrogations of Gladiolus didn’t go smoothly.

“But you remember a woman too?” Noctis asks, his own memory fuzzy beyond the fact that there was a woman, and she saved them from…why do his thoughts drift to fog whenever he reaches for the tiniest detail? “Why didn’t you three pass out like I did?”

“We can assume it’s because they did not receive the mark as you did. As you can tell, its power is quite draining; it’s no wonder that it sapped your strength so.” Solas points his staff farther into the ruins, where the green glow of a large rift glistens directly under the Breach. “I should also mention a theory of mine. This rift was the first, and is the key—seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

“And if we seal the Breach, it’ll send us back home?” Prompto asks. He doesn’t dare voice the other possibility—that closing the Breach will lock them in this foreign land. “Well, what’re we waiting for? Let’s get going!”

The path into the ruins is oddly quiet, and the air is thick with the intermingled smells of smoke and blood. No demons rush out to meet them, and the only corpses are the bare marble bones of the old temple. Leliana and her guards fall into step with the rest of their group, the hooded woman running her fingers along a marble pillar and murmuring, “To think, it’s already been ten years since…”

But as they approach the Breach (and Noctis knows they are close, it’s like a black hole pulling at his mark), a new voice breaks the silence. “Now is the hour of our victory,” echoes a voice like a deep, rusted corridor. “Bring forth the sacrifice.”

“That must be a really big daemon up ahead,” Prompto whimpers.

“That’s no demon,” Solas retorts. “At a guess: it is the person who created the Breach.”

Noctis tightens his grip on his sword. He’s heard that voice before, but he can’t put a face to the words.

As they venture deeper into the ruins, the stones cast off the green glow of the reach for a deep red. Veins of crimson creep along the ground, crystals jutting out of earth and stone. They pulse with their own inner light, not the color of blood but of rage. A maddening sound, almost like a song hummed out of tune, reaches Noct’s ears as he walks by the stones.

“Whatever you do, don’t touch that,” Varric warns—a tinge of fear creeps into his jovial voice. “Unless you really want to lose your mind, or turn into a statue.”

Ignis surmises, “A magical stone, then. Are such things common? And is it…humming?”

“Yes, no, and don’t listen to it. Otherwise, you’ll start to miss it.” Even as he says it, Varric’s gaze lingers on the stone. His fingers twitch toward it before he shudders and hurries onward. Noctis makes sure to give the red lyrium a wide berth as he passes it.

The echoing voice surrounds them again; “Keep the sacrifice still.”

A woman’s voice follows. “Someone, help me!”

“That is Divine Justinia’s voice!” Cassandra shouts. She and Leliana charge ahead, and while Noctis follows them, he realizes that the woman’s voice sounds familiar. He’s sure he’s never met this Divine Justinia, but those words echo in his head.

The rift looms over a pit in the ground, and hovering between heaven and earth are two ghostly reflections. The white figure of a woman hangs suspended in the air by crimson tendrils of energy, watched by a cloaked figure in black, menacing eyes glinting red like the lyrium around them. A third figure charges in, and Noctis is surrounded by the sound of his own voice asking, “What is going on here?” Whispers of his guardian’s voices follow, barely heard questions of “Noct, what’s going on?” and “Wait, where the hell are we, where’d she go?” circling around them.

Cassandra’s voice shakes with disbelief. “Most Holy called out to you? But…”

As if awoken by the Seeker’s call, the reflection of Divine Justinia cries out again. “Run while you can! Warn them!”

“That’s not why I was called here,” Noct’s voice answers. Something stirs within the Prince’s memory. Yes, there’s a reason he’s here, he was called here by…was it by Justinia? No, that wasn’t it, but it was close…

“So, there is another pawn in play…” The figure in black points at the ghosts of Noctis and his guardians. “We have intruders. Kill the world-walkers.”

As soon as the vision blinks out of existence, gloved hands grip Noct’s shoulders. Cassandra’s eyes bore into his. “You were there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…was that vision true? What are we seeing?”

“I don’t remember!” Noctis shouts back as his hand pulses again. He can hear the shifting of weapons as his guardians prepare to step in. He grits his teeth and forces himself to look Cassandra in the eyes; there’s anger there still, but it’s mixed with pain, and the barest glint of hope. “All I know is, that’s the same woman who pulled me out of…wherever I was. The woman in white.”

“Then these are echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place.” Solas is the only one who still seems calm about these revelations. He paces under the rift, gazing up into the acidic green maw of energy. “The rift is not sealed, but it is closed, albeit temporarily. I believe with the mark, we can open it again, and then seal it properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

Cassandra calls for the remaining soldiers to prepare for demons. Archers take up posts along the pit, while the soldiers ready their swords and shields, helmets almost obscuring how pale they’ve grown with fear. The others fall into position around Noctis—Solas, Prompto, and Varric in the back to fight whatever appears at a range, with Gladio and Cassandra flanking the prince and Ignis at his back. No one speaks, their words replaced by the hum of the red lyrium encircling them.

Noctis reaches up with his corrupted hand and opens the rift.

At first, he mistakes the hulking creature that materializes before them for an iron giant, the only daemon he’s ever fought that’s simultaneously so monstrous and so human. But this beast has more spikes despite having flesh instead of armor, and more eyes that look down on him as if he is a child swinging a wooden blade. The attacks on it seem just as effective, arrows bouncing off its hardened skin, blades threatening to crack.

Even when Gladiolus charges in with a tempest strike from a blade that would fell most men, it leaves no mark on the demon. The beast responds with a chilling laugh before swatting the prince’s shield aside.

The world becomes a cacophony of screams. Noct shouts Gladio’s name, praying to the Six that his companion isn’t dead. A soldier calls “Pride Demon!” at the beast before the demon crushes the man’s head. Others yell orders to each other, shout at the demon to grant themselves a moment of bravery, or in Cassandra’s case, dare the beast to face her in order to draw it away from the others. Somewhere in the chaos, Noctis hears Solas crying out, “The rift, weaken it with the rift!”

Noctis reaches out, and even though he can’t bring the rift to a full close, he can sever the pride demon’s connection to the Fade and its power. The demon is stunned, allowing the soldiers to rush in and attack. Noctis does not join them, instead running to where he saw Gladio fall. Gladio is still alive, thank the astrals, readying his sword again even as Noctis pulls him to his feet. The shield asks, “You worried?”

“I almost thought it was going to swat you up to the Breach,” Noctis says, trying to hide the way his heart jumped at seeing his friend being tossed around like a ragdoll.

“We’ll have to try that with you, if closing this rift doesn’t work.” Gladio winks to show it was a joke, but uncertainty tugs at his words. But there’s no time to question it—Gladio’s already charging back into the fray, and Noctis needs to follow before the demon gets back up.

He’s not even sure where to start striking that thing, so he calls out to Ignis for instructions. Ever the strategist, Ignis fires a flurry of daggers along the demon’s body, landing the final blade right between its eyes. Noctis warps after the blows, though it feels like the mark is burning throughout his entire body as he darts across the demon’s wounds. He feels about to collapse once he reaches the demon’s head, though he manages to hold himself up by burying his blade in one of the pride demon’s many eyes. It doesn’t scream—it laughs again, picking him up and flinging him back toward the ground.

Noctis is well-trained enough to warp right before he hits the ground, and he lands right between Prompto and Varric. The younger guardian is firing lightning bolts with astonishing precision; it seems he’s taken to magic as quickly as he did his brief Crownsguard training. Varric fires a volley of arrows into the demon’s damaged eyes before reaching out to give Noctis a hand back up. “Holding up alright, kid?”

Noctis manages to nod, the rest of his body shaking from both the mark and the rapid expenditure of his mana while warping. He nearly falls back over until Prompto rushes to his side, looping an arm around his back to help him stay on his feet. Noctis has faced mana deprivation in battle before, but it’s never felt like this, like his body is trying to tear itself apart from the inside out until he’s nothing more than a hollowed-out shell.

But the rift is opening back up, this time spitting out more of the smaller demons to assault the soldiers as the pride demon steels itself for the rest of the fight. Swords and arrows bounce off its spiked skin once more, and this time, a whip made of lightning materializes in its claws. It swings at a group of soldiers, Cassandra barely reaching them and blocking with her shield in time. It’s an impressive feat, but not one she can pull off forever.

“I need to get back to the rift,” Noctis finally says, once he feels like he can breathe again. “Can you guys cover me?”

“What’re friends for?” Prompto asks, managing to maintain his optimistic grin despite the pride demon looming over them.  
Varric replies with, “True, you wouldn’t believe how many times my friends and I have faced these things. Or, maybe with all you guys have seen today, you would.”

So instead of warping back across the battlefield, Noctis runs as fast as he can through the demons and shoulders, his path kept clear by both well-timed crossbow bolts and last-minute bolts of lightning. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cassandra and Gladio working together to keep the pride demon away from the other soldiers, while the other demons are either set on fire by Solas or run through by Ignis’ lance. Even though they’ve all only fought together for a few hours, the desperation of battle makes their actions flow together like a rehearsed dance—and truly there is no other way for them to fight, for one wrong move could condemn them all.

It’s also desperation that brings Noctis back to the base of the rift, but he’s already searching for a plan that can finally bring the pride demon down. The demon is powerful enough even without the armor—with only a bit of his mana left and no other magic of his own, how can he fight it without being tossed aside again and again until he’s unlucky enough to crack his skull on those spires of red lyrium? Noct watches it charge the soldiers, mostly blind but able to follow the sounds of their screams. It chases them away, its back to Noctis, and the prince has an idea.

“Prompto! Soon as that thing’s armor disappears, I need you to zap that its legs,” Noctis orders. “Like how your piercer attack worked—think you can pull that off?” His guardian nods, not out of surety but because there’s no time to doubt. “Good. Varric, can you land an arrow on its back? Right in the middle, where it can’t reach?”

“Just one? Kid, prepare yourself for the most demonic pincushion you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

The rift closes faster this time, and Noctis doesn’t have time to recognize how sick it makes him feel because the air is static with lightning, and the arrows are already flying toward the pride demon’s spine. Noct burns all the mana remaining in his body to follow them and bury his blade in the demon’s back as it crashes to the ground. The blow is sudden enough that the prideful laughter is replaced by a disdainful growl. And sure enough, when it tries to reach back to dispatch him, even its talons cannot reach him.

He pulls the blade out, slick with ichor, reflecting that acidic glow of the Breach, and raises it to the sky as a rallying cry. Down below, all those warriors who answer his call look like ants swarming this fallen force of nature. The adrenaline is just enough to keep Noctis standing as he helps finish off the pride demon, and when the last blow is finally dealt, he holds tight to its spiked hide as it falls to the ground. When its body dissipates, he falls and musters his remaining energy to warp away from the ground—only for Gladio to catch him before he has the chance.

It’s so much louder back on the ground, torn between victorious battlecries and calls for Noctis to seal the rift before more demons can come through, with that maddening undercurrent of red lyrium replacing all hopes of silence. Noctis can’t help but close his eyes in a vain attempt to block it all out.

A hand, bloody and calloused from all the fighting, helps him hold up the mark, keeps his arm steady as he reaches out with the corrupt energies of the rift. This time, it feels like the Breach is trying to pull every drop of power within him, and it nearly brings him to his knees. But now there’s a hand on his back keeping him steady, an encouraging squeeze on his shoulder to let him know he’s not alone. The prince doesn’t need to see or hear his guardians to know they’re with him.

The rift pinches shut, and the rest of the world turns off. No light, no pain. There’s a brief sensation of falling, of warm hands disappearing as someone shouts his name, but soon that’s gone too.

Just like the rift. Just like…the Breach?

_“That’s not why I was called here.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rest assured, there will be some deviance from the Inquisition plot and dialogue later--I just felt it important to keep as much of it intact here as is sensible. Also rest assured that next chapter, we should see things from the other chocobros' points of view...


	3. Sleeping Martyr

_The First Day_

Once, Gladio’s younger sister, Iris, had brought him a bird. A living one, though it hadn’t stayed that way for long—it had crashed right into the window, and while the impact didn’t kill it, it was enough to twist the poor bird’s head almost completely backwards. All the tears in Iris’ eyes couldn’t help Gladio save that bird. All he’d been able to do was carry the bird away as its tiny heart fluttered to a halt in his hands, and then he’d buried it.

Now, Gladio wouldn’t dare compare Noctis, his prince and best friend, to a bird. But as he carries Noctis away from the Breach, he can’t help but be reminded of a too-slow heartbeat, of the warmth of life draining away in his hands. His prince is almost as pale as the snow, and watching the green glow of the Breach dance across his face isn’t helping any. He holds Noctis as close as he can, as if he can cast away the shadow of death with mere strength alone. He knows that strength would fail him if he had to dig Noctis a grave.

The hours afterwards run long. Potion master Adan is summoned as soon as they return to Haven, and he doesn’t leave Noct’s side until late in the night and far too many potions to count. Solas is there too, being the only one who has any idea how the mark possibly works, and everything else in that cabin is a blur of comings and goings. Assistants bring poultices, herbs harvested from the snow, and prayers.

(It is the first time Gladio hears the phrase “the Herald of Andraste,” but the words don’t register just yet. Andraste does not grace the rare prayers that pass his lips—he instead begs Shiva to take back her chill from Noct’s skin, Leviathan to help the blood flow like river rapids through his veins again, and Bahamut to save the life of his chosen one since he didn’t save…Gladio doesn’t remember who Bahamut failed, but there’s a weight in his chest when he thinks about it.)

He doesn’t talk much with Ignis and Prompto, their tongues tied with worry. They manage to find a Phoenix Down in Noct’s pocket, but its magic isn’t enough to awaken him. None of them have the medical knowledge to do more, so they agree to at least take turns keeping watch in this tiny cabin, waiting for Noctis to finally wake up. Gladiolus claims first watch, consigning himself to a small wooden chair by the window, and refuses to budge. His sleep is fitful and reluctant that night.

Night passes, and Noctis still hasn’t woken up. Gladio’s own hazy dreams of crackling flames and radio static are interrupted by Adan’s return. Adan doesn’t say anything, barely acknowledging Gladio’s existence with a disinterested grunt while he sets up his supplies. Gladiolus blearily opens his eyes to sunshine streaming in through the window (and a brief sense of disappointment when he sees the snow outside, as if hoping this whole adventure was a dream and he’d awaken to the sands of Galdin Quay).

The potion master is followed by Ignis, who strides up to Gladio’s perch with an armful of books and scrolls. The strategist finds an abandoned bookcase to set his findings down in as he says, “Morning, Gladio. Any news?”

“Noct is still passed out, and we’re still here. Nothing beyond that.” He escapes the wooden chair and stretches, peering over Adan’s shoulder to check on Noctis. The prince is peaceful enough that Gladio can almost imagine that he’s just oversleeping in the hotel room. The mark’s glow has receded; there’s a large, glowing gash in the prince’s palm, but there are no longer wisps of energy twirled around his wrist like a mindflayer’s tendrils.

Ignis sighs as he picks up one of the books and flips through its pages. “Then the waiting game continues.”

“Noct’s life isn’t a game,” Gladio snaps; the harshness of his voice crackles through the air, enough to catch Ignis off-guard (and even Adan spares a glance in confused curiosity). The shield looks away and immediately says, “Sorry. It’s just…you know.”

“Worry?” Ignis guesses, correctly, at what Gladio can’t bring himself to admit. “I understand; we all do. However, I believe it is high time for me to start my watch, and for you to…stretch your limbs for a bit. There seem to be some weapons and training dummies downhill from here, if you felt like training for a bit?” 

He doesn’t dare suggest that the shield relax, and Gladio is grateful for that. Even if Noctis wasn’t unconscious and possibly still in danger, there’s the fact that they’re in a completely different world, and one seemingly closer to war and rebellion than their own. And if there’s one thing Ignis and Gladio have in common, it’s their inability to sit still when there’s work to be done.

So Gladiolus pulls himself out of the creaking wooden chair, allowing Ignis to take his place with a silent promise to alert him should anything happen. He mutters his farewells, asks Adan if he needs anything (a request to search for lost notes and supplies; it’s an excuse to walk away and clear his head, at least), and tries not to stare at the mark marring his best friend’s hand.

The cold, crisp air of Haven is refreshing after hours cooped up inside. The groups of gawkers, not so much. There are only scattered groups here and there, gathered under eaves like icicles with their eyes glued to the cabin where Noctis is resting. They whisper amongst themselves, and all Gladio can make out is the name Andraste. He’s still not sure who that is, though he’s starting to think she’s one of this world’s astrals. Normally, he’d wander up to one of these strangers and start making small talk, gather information in a more casual manner. But even a false bravado of extroversion won’t come. He leaves the gawkers to their gossip and begins to explore Haven.

It’s a small village, scarcely bigger than Galdin Quay, and it looks like all these wooden buildings have been standing as long as the surroundings mountains have. Everyone around is either a soldier or one of those Chantry members; if anyone’s a native to this town, Gladio can’t tell them apart from the rest. He does notice that a few folks have pointed ears like Solas, or are short and broad like Varric. The elves and dwarves lack all the mysticism the fairytales gave them, but seeing these beings from the stories he once read to Iris is still surreal beyond words.

Iris. Is his little sister okay? Is his father still by the king’s side, protecting him as all members of the Amiticia bloodline are sworn to do? He’s sure they must be, a family of shields has to be resilient after all, but now he can’t just call them to make sure. It’s a worry he’s not used to, something he can’t just fight away with a sword.

Still, he doesn’t quit wandering until he finds the practice field, where Commander Cullen is busy instructing the troops. Gladio has trained other people—most notably Noctis, though he’s given Ignis and Prompto pointers before—but never so many all at once. It’s an impressive feat, and almost more impressive is that Cullen’s still aware of his surroundings enough to notice Gladio and wave him over.

“I never got to properly thank you for your assistance earlier,” the commander tells him. “Your skills were most appreciated—though I must admit, I’ve never seen someone use that large of a sword and still manage to effectively wield a shield.”

Gladio answers with a proud smirk, “Most don’t have the training for it…or the muscles. But other than the weight distribution, it’s really not so different from wielding a normal sword.”

Cullen nods, and calls for one of the soldiers to bring one of the two-handed practice blades. Gladio takes it with one hand (smirking at the amazed looks from the soldiers) before beginning his warm-up strikes. They were the first moves his father taught him back when his “practice blades” were fallen sticks from the garden, and the prince he was born to protect was barely old enough to crawl.

“You almost make this look easy,” Cullen admits.

“I should, considering how long I’ve been doing this.” Granted, he’s been trained to fight humans and some of the fiercer forms of wildlife. Not…whatever those things from the Breach were. “So, those demons. They common around here?”

Gladio’s not watching the commander, but he hears the man’s tone grow distant and bitter as he speaks. “Usually, not in remote villages like this. But in more populated areas, or anywhere with a lot of mages…”

Gladio tries to keep his form fluid and flawless as Cullen explains the risk of magic summoning demons into the world, the templars who fight to keep such power under control, and why the tensions between these two groups has escalated into a full-out war. There’s a lot to follow, especially once Cullen goes into his “brief overview” of Kirkwall that becomes a tale of body-warping blood magic and a paranoid knight-commander crystalizing into a statue of red lyrium. 

It’s a lot to wrap his head around. Especially since Prompto has this magic, and Noctis has…something that not even the residents of this world understand. They’re in the middle of a war in a world they don’t belong in, with no idea why or how to return home. 

Gladio allows it all to overwhelm him for just a moment, which results in a strike strong enough to accidentally dismember the head of the training dummy. Even Cullen pauses his explanation as they watch the dummy’s head sail through the air, briefly silhouetted against the light of the Breach before hurtling into the snow. There is silence. Gladio remembers to breathe.

Cullen reaches up to clap him on the shoulder. “And here I thought Cassandra was rough while training. Perhaps we should put armor on it next time?”

“Yeah,” Gladio mutters, his thoughts still with another world. “Maybe we should.”

 

_The Second Day_

Ignis has to squint when he first steps out of the cabin, because sunlight on snow is so much brighter than ink and parchment by candlelight. He feels guilty for taking a break in his research, almost as guilty as leaving Noct’s side even though it’s Prompto’s turn to keep watch, but his head will explode like an agitated bomb if he tries to stuff another sentence into his brain.

It’s not that Ignis is unused to research—far from it, he studied for himself and the prince for years. Years were the key here, for this was cramming all the history, politics, and even the physics of an entirely new world in a matter of days. Why are elves treated as slaves, and dwarves are unable to use magic? Who was this Andraste before, if she wasn’t originally an astral (no, wrong word, there aren’t even astrals here!), and how has no one actually seen this Maker before? Does Qunari refer to a race, a religion, or somehow both?!

The worst part, if he indulges himself enough to be melodramatic for a moment, is that there is no Ebony. Coffee doesn’t even exist here, it seems, and all he’s found to keep himself awake is tea.

Though he’s surrounded by the bustle of the unusually busy small town (and the chatter of all the bystanders, their eyes glued to the cabin), a soft chuckle cuts through the noise and catches his ear. He turns toward it to find a patch of shade in all the light; a darkened tent, and inside, Leliana peers at him from the shadows of her violet hood. Her smile is soft and calming as she waves him over, but bleary as it is, Ignis’ trained gaze still takes note of all the daggers hidden on her person and the bow strapped to her back. This is a woman not just used to fighting, but for life-or-death situations to occur anywhere, anytime.

Still, she laughs again once Ignis strides over, and there’s something kind in her eyes when she speaks. “That look you wear—I know it all too well. I have worn it many times myself, after long hours of studying in the chantry. I used to think there was so much to learn all at once; but look at you, trying to study the world in a day!”

“Someone has to, for the prince’s sake. I fear there will be more than just history for him to catch up on once he wakes up.” After all, the whispers around Haven wonder about what the ‘Herald of Andraste,’ as they’re calling Noctis now, will do next to vanquish the Breach—and the Chantry already disapproves of his very existence.

Leliana picks up a piece of parchment, glancing at Ignis to make sure he’s not trying to read it over her shoulder before she examines it. “To think, that for all you four look and sound like us, your world is so different from ours.” She goes quiet for a moment as she examines the report in her hands, punctuating the end of it with a sigh. Ignis knows that feeling all too well. “Is it true what you say, that your world is without the Maker?”

“So it seems. Not that our world appeared out of nothing—it was given form by the Astrals. But unlike your Maker, we still have physical proof of their presence. Even now, unless a major catastrophe has occurred in our absence, Titan is still keeping a meteorite from crashing into our planet.” He catches a strange look on Leliana’s face, a mix of pity and envy. “Not to offend—I don’t mean to imply that your Maker’s incorporeality means he doesn’t exist…”

“No offense taken. I admit, I sometimes wish it did.” She deftly picks up a quill and begins to jot a message on a fresh piece of parchment. Her penmanship is smooth and practiced. “I used to think of myself as chosen, and tried to follow His advice to save this world. Yet it seems my only thanks are the deaths of those I hold dearest. Is it a cruel game, or does He truly care so little for his followers?” Somehow, her momentary crisis of faith does not interrupt the clean lines of her message. “Perhaps the Maker is right, not to show his face. I am sure I am not the only one who would mar it, if given the chance.”

Ignis finds himself unsure of what to say. Back home, of course there are those who doubt the benevolence of the Six; who can forget how the Niflheim Empire slayed Shiva, and the eternal blizzard still surrounding her corpse? However, there’s something unsettling about hearing such doubts voiced, even about a god who isn’t his own.

Noticing his apparent confusion, Leliana tries to laugh it off as she looks up from her parchment. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Now it is my turn to apologize; I do not  
mean to burden you with such foolish worries. After all, you are lucky. He is not yours to follow.”

“It is alright. These are trying times, for all of us.” Not willing to sit down but not having enough space to pace, the tactician opts to lean against one of the tent poles. His eyes gradually adapt to the light around them—at least some small part of him has an easy time adjusting to this world. He mulls over the information he’s read and heard these past two days, trying to recall how Leliana fits into all this. She was called the Left Hand of the Divine, yes? Then it is no wonder that she is distraught, if the person she’d sworn her life to is suddenly gone. If he understands the connection correctly, what she must be going through would be like if Insomnia was attacked while King Regis was signing the peace treaty with Niflheim, and everyone…

(…Radio static, newspaper headlines, is that fire on the horizon…?)

“Are you okay, Ignis? You seem unwell.”

The vague wisps of memory disappear, but the sense of sickening unease buries itself deeper in his chest. Something happened, there is a parallel between the conclave and Insomnia, and it is in spite of that (or because of it?) that they are here. That is all he can be certain of, even if he can’t voice why.

“It will pass. Though I don’t suppose you would know where I could find some coffee?”

Leliana winks, apparently as eager for a distraction as he is, “I do believe our ambassador has brought a small supply with her from Antiva. Shall we go look?”

_The Third Day_

“See, the logging site is just past those trees, can’t miss it. There’s a cabin too, but it looks abandoned.”

The requisition officer squints at the screen of Prompto’s camera. She’s one of the first who doesn’t question how his ‘mysterious box’ works, just nods and says, “We’ll look into it. Many thanks, Sir Argentum.”

Prompto chuckles nervously as he corrects her, “It’s just Prompto. I’m not a noble or anything. I’m flattered though, don’t get me wrong!”

The requisition officer gives him another quizzical look, but she just nods and says, “Understood.” And then, with a note of hesitation, “If it’s not too much to ask, I was wondering…”

Prompto already knows what she wants to see—everyone’s been asking, especially today after his watch in the cabin ended. He goes into the camera menu and skips to the pictures at the beginning of his album, to the scant few pictures he took of Insomnia as he and his friends were leaving. He lets the officer watch as he slowly scrolls through them, allowing her eyes to linger along the platinum finish of the Regalia, to climb up the lengths of the skyscrapers or along the marble steps leading up to the royal palace.

“So this is the Silver City?” She asks reverently, as if the words are somehow sacred.

“Yup! That’s Insomnia alright.” He’s not sure why everyone refers to it as the Silver City, other than all the shiny technology, but he’s decided not to question it. He’s just lucky that he brought along a solar charger on the trip, so he doesn’t have to worry about his battery running out. It’s because of the camera that they were able to convince everyone that they were in fact from another world, and not just amnesiacs in strange clothes.

The requisition officer pulls away and takes a deep breath to regain her composure. “Truly a marvelous city, si—Prompto. Thank you again for your assistance.”

“No problem at all!” Prompto watches her leave to direct her assistants, and allows himself to feel a small moment of pride. In this world, no one realizes he’s a plebian, just a friendly tagalong to the prince. To them, he’s a mage with the window into another world, and he’s just as important as everyone else. (And if someone were to accidentally spy that barcode decorating his wrist, those marks would have no meaning other than a further testament to this “Silver City.”)

Okay, so he’s still a bit of an outcast with this magic stuff, and while Solas has assured him that with “proper precaution” he shouldn’t accidentally summon any demons like the ones spawning from the rifts, he still has a whole slew of new powers to figure out. But at least this magic is something he can use to help his friends.

(And he has to admit, being able to call down bolts of lightning from the sky like Ramuh is pretty friggin’ sweet. Is it sacrilegious to think so? Does that matter in a world where Ramuh and the other astrals don’t exist?)

Now, Prompto usually considers himself an observant person, if only because he’s always searching for the best photo ops. But with all the questions swirling around his head, as well as all the new sights to soak in, he doesn’t entirely realize that someone’s walking toward him with her nose in her parchment until the two of them crash right into each other. Prompto flails to catch himself, his camera, and the woman he’s just crashed into all at the same time, which only leads to him landing face-first in the snow, his camera landing mere inches from his hands, and his body cushioning the woman’s fall. She’s already scrambling off him and apologizing in the most eloquently embarrassed tone he’s ever heard.

He quickly grabs the camera and presses the menu button, and thankfully, there are no cracks or wonky pixels on the screen when it lights up. Prompto sighs in relief before looking up at the woman to apologize, only to find himself momentarily speechless. She’s a pristine vision of gold and violet, even with bits of snow clinging to her hair and cheeks.

“Are you alright?” She asks again, offering him one hand while the other grabs at her fallen papers.

Prompto nods and says, “Sure, I am if you are.” Oh Six, did that sound weird? Probably definitely yeah. He hops up to his feet to show that he’s okay, and then remembers the outstretched hand and takes it, pulling the woman up as well. “Sorry ‘bout that, I wasn’t…I mean, I…hi?”

“Hello,” the woman agrees with an easy smile. “Leliana was right; I really shouldn’t take my work outside.”

“Least the snow makes for a nice cushion.” Prompto realizes he’s still holding the woman’s hand, so he gives it a quick shake like he meant to do that. “Prompto Argentum. Nice t’meet you.”

“Ah, so you’re Prompto! I was wondering when I’d get the chance to meet you.” The woman has a firm grip for someone who looks so delicate. “Josephine Montilyet, at your service. Your friends spoke a great deal about you—all good things, I assure you.”

“Really? That’s…a bit of a surprise, but thanks!” He knows how sarcastic his friends can be, after all, and the burden Gladio and Ignis are putting themselves under trying to prepare for when Noctis wakes up. In a way, he’s almost more impressed that they found time to talk to anyone beyond gathering information. Which…is something he should probably do more of, now that he thinks about it. “So, ah, what do you do around here? No offense, but you really don’t look like a warrior.”

Josephine readjusts her papers on her clipboard, briefly frowning as she realizes the candle’s gone out. “I’m afraid to admit that I really am quite poor with a blade. To say nothing of the time Leliana tried to teach me to use a bow…!” She shakes her head with a grin at the memory. “No, I am an ambassador and diplomat. Leliana called me here to assist with any political ramifications.”

Prompto nods, not knowing too much about politics in general, much less those of another world. Still, the others have been trying hard to learn about this place; the least he can do is try as well. “You mean, like…making sure people stop blaming us for what happened to your conclave?”

“Yes, as well as making sure that rumors about what did happen do not get out of hand—or at least being clear that they are not official claims.” She shivers as she brushes more show out of her hair. “I should head inside—care to join me?”

Prompto readily agrees, having spent most of the morning exploring the outskirts of Haven, which included finding the abandoned cabin and steering clear of the druffalo. He could stand to warm up before finally going to sleep—like the others, he couldn’t rest during the night while watching over Noct. He hopes the prince wakes up soon; there’s already so much Prompto wants to show his best friend before they figure out how to leave this world.

“May I ask what you think of this world so far?” Josephine asks, as if she entertains visitors from other dimensions all the time.

“Prompto immediately answers, “I mean, not that we’ve seen much yet, but it’s a lot like the fairytales I read as a kid! And everyone’s been really nice to us so far—I mean, other than the demons. And Cassandra, at first, but that kinda’ makes sense.” He suppresses a shiver as a chill wind passes by. “Just wondering though: is the rest of the world this…cool?”

“Certainly not. Most places I have been to are far warmer—just wait until you see Antiva.” She pauses to open the door to the Chantry, the fires inside making it far warmer than outside. Prompto’s still reminded of when he was first in this building, separated from the others and interrogated about a conclave he’d never heard about. All he could do was try to explain what little he could remember and show the soldiers his camera. Again, most everyone’s treating him better now, but he still tries not to look down the stairs that lead to the cells. Or at the glare Chancellor Roderick is aiming his way.

Josephine leads Prompto to a room near the back of the Chantry, which has a desk covered in neat stacks of paper, plus another to the side where blue-robed figures investigate…livelier evidence. “Now, you said this world is like your fairytales?”

“Yeah, sort of. I mean, still haven’t heard of any of these places, but they had swords and magic against monsters, and some had dwarves and elves too. Like the Adventures of the Warrior of Light!” The whole medieval lack of technology was similar too, though none of the tales had anything like the Breach. Or exploding peace talks.

Josephine hums and makes a note on a new piece of parchment. “That might explain some of the rumors. There are those who believe that, instead of coming from another world, you came from a land created by the Maker. The Silver City, they call it, kept apart from our world so it is not corrupted like the Golden City was. If that were the case, it’d make sense that our world would be little more than a legend to them…but it’s a preposterous idea, is it not?”

Her smile is so sweet, but Prompto feels his heart sinking into his stomach. “Yeah! Yeah, it really…” He can’t keep his voice from trembling or his face from flushing, so he has to watch as her smile falls into something more concerned. Well, no keeping this cait sith in the bag. “…So when I was showing people pictures, I might’ve thought they were just calling it the Silver City because it was so shiny and metal…so I didn’t correct them?”

Josephine doesn’t groan or berate him, but she can’t help but pinch the bridge of her nose as she sighs. “I…see. That’s alright, I’m certain there is some way we can make this work without every member of the Chantry branding us as heretics…” Prompto realized he must’ve let his anxieties show on his face, because the ambassador winced when she looked at him. “Don’t think it is your fault! There is much to learn in such a short time, so a few missteps are to be expected from everyone.”

“If you’re sure.” Prompto still feels like he wants to curl up in a corner and die for a little bit. Now it makes sense why the folks who looked at the photos were so reverent; why didn’t he realize something was up earlier? Why couldn’t he be smart like the others and think things through? He grabs the doorframe just so he has something to hold onto. “I’ll…let you get to that, stay out of your hair and all that…”

“No, it is no bother at all! Please, stay a moment longer.” Josephine sets her quill and parchment down, searching around the room for a chair. She finds one near the other desk and brings it to her own. “It would help if I could ask you more about Insomnia. Or the Silver City, I suppose we’re calling it now. You said you had illustrations of it?”

Prompto considers running anyway. But no; this is a new world, and he’s going to make the most of it. For his friends and himself, he’s going to be brave. Taking a deep breath, he releases his grip on the door and takes a seat.

“Not quite illustrations; I can’t draw to save my life. No, this here is a camera…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, I really want to explore how all the chocobros adjust to this new world, not just Noctis. It was a little more challenging to write than I expected (particularly how they interact with each of the advisors), but also pretty fun!
> 
> ...Somehow, I feel worst for Gladio. This is so not what he signed up for.


	4. Shallow Ground

When Noctis first wakes up, he almost mistakes it for another dream, because why else would he wake up in a small wooden cabin out in the snow? It’s when the cold air buries under his skin, much like the prison cell he first woke up in, that he realizes that he’s awake and this world didn’t spawn from his own imagination. 

To make sure of this, he looks down at his hand; the mark’s hold on him has retreated to a deep green gash in his palm. It doesn’t quite hurt anymore, more of a dull ache that’s settled into the surrounding muscle. Still, better than when it was pulsing and feeling like he was burning from the inside out.

Noctis doesn’t realize he’s got company until he hears a door slam, followed by heavy footsteps on the wooden floor. He didn’t see who it was leaving, but there’s the unmistakable form of Gladio about to storm after whoever that was, only to shake his head and turn to face Noctis. The shield looks like he’s been gritting his teeth for hours, but some of the tension releases when he takes a deep breath and says, “Bout time you woke up, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Better late than never.” He pauses when he thinks he hears voices outside, in turns excited and reverent. It’s a far cry from the pained shouts of battle, or the accusative whispers that had followed him when he’d passed through camps. “Sounds like I’ve got a fan club out there.”

He meant it as a joke, but Gladio still groans as he leans against the closed door. “And then some. You stopped the Breach from growing any larger, so now folks here think we’re a gift from the gods. And everyone else thinks we’re crazy heretics.”

“Almost sounds like home.” Warm as this bed is compared to the world outside, Noct’s body feels stiffer than if he’d fallen asleep in the back of the Regalia for too long. His weak leg nearly causes him to stumble once he escapes the bed’s confines.

“You were asleep for three days,” Gladio says by way of explanation. He manages to keep the traces of worry out of his voice, but he can’t hide the tightness in his jaw, and the dark circles forming under his eyes from sleepless nights. Noctis knows his friends must have whipped themselves into a panic.

“That’s a long nap, even for me.” Noctis paces around the room, testing out his legs to make sure he’s not going to trip in front of everyone outside. “Where are Specs and Prom? They weren’t the ones who just left, right?”

Gladio crosses his arms, one of which is sporting a few new gashes from fighting the pride demon. “No, that was…I didn’t catch her name, thought she was just an elf bringing supplies. But I guess someone asked her to alert the entire damn village as soon as you woke up, so…” He shrugs, knowing it can’t be helped. “I’d bet a week’s worth of cup noodles that Ignis is still researching, considering how many papers he was lugging around. Prompto’s probably showing off pictures on his camera some more.” There’s a brief grimace when Gladio says that, but before the prince can ask he continues, “I’m sure they’ll find us once we meet with Cassandra. Said she needed to talk to you as soon as you woke up.”

Noctis raises an eyebrow. “This Iggy’s definition of ‘as soon as you wake up,’ or yours?” The advisor’s definition, at least when it comes to Noctis, being “as soon as you’re awake, which includes mentally prepared by being dressed, fed, caffeinated, and having properly brushed your teeth.” Gladio’s definition is considerably more succinct: “Now.”

Judging by the look on Gladio’s face, he and Cassandra must have matching dictionaries.

Noctis sighs on his way to the door, walking slow enough to hide the limp that’s acting up. “You’ve got my back?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Gladiolus holds the door open, and Noctis can practically see the hush falling on the crowd as they realize who’s in the doorway. His path is lined with awed villagers, saluting soldiers, and chantry members torn between wonder and cynicism. Were he not a prince, Noctis would have panicked at the sight of so many eyes on him.

But he is Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, and he knows how to pass the judgment of onlookers. Posture tall and straight, eyes focused and straight ahead (never looking into anyone’s eyes, but just over their heads to feign attention), and a poker face that not even his father can match. He doesn’t need to ask where to go, for the crowd has only left one path for him, and that is up to the stone building where he’d been imprisoned just days ago. He refuses to let worries about that lost time, about this whole other world, show on his face. In public, a prince can show no fear.

Gladio stays right behind him the entire time, heavy steps crunching through the snow. They’re joined moments later by the almost silent footfalls of Ignis as he slips away from a cabin along their path, pulling on his gloves to hide fingertips stained with ink. Soon following are hurried gasps of “ ‘Scuse me, sorry!” as Prompto bounds through the crowd and almost trips in his hurry to the prince’s side. No one laughs or scoffs at him; no, Noctis and his guardians are all regarded in awe.

“That’s him,” an excited voice explains in hushed tones, “the Herald of Andraste, and his brothers in arms! They say Andraste herself guided them out of the Maker’s Silver City.”

“Why did Lady Cassandra have him in chains?” asks another voice. “I thought Seekers knew everything. Couldn’t she see that he’s blessed?”

Ignis leans in and whispers to Noctis, “Andraste and the Maker are their two primary gods. They think we were sent as their…messengers, I believe would be the closest equivalent.”

“And they might’ve mistaken my photos of Insomnia for a place made by this Maker?” Prompto admits, his quiet tone unable to keep his face from growing red. “So yeah, they think we come from the land of the gods or something, and…that’s my bad.”

Noctis waves it off—this may be another world, but being regarded as some kind of hero is nothing new. After all, the Caelum family is one day going to end with the Chosen King who will vanquish the encroaching night, and of course there are rumors back home that he will be that king. The scenery’s changed here, but what it means to be chosen hasn’t; be a beacon of hope, smite the demons, save the world.

The prince and his guardians finally break free from the stares and the prayers as they pass through the foreboding doors of the chantry. With the clanking armor of soldiers replaced by quiet chanters, and sunlight streaming through the door instead of just the tainted glow of the Breach, it almost seems comforting in here. This silence is swiftly broken by the sharp voice of Chancellor Roderick, which hasn’t been at all tempered by the fact that Noctis and his friends saved the village from being ripped apart by demons. In fact, he sounds almost closer to histrionics as he declares, “The prisoner failed, Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, he intended it that way.”

“Of course you want the giant hole in the sky to stay up there,” Gladio growls with more than a hint of sarcasm. “How else is that mark going to tear up your arm?”

“Need to get out of training with you somehow,” Noctis replies, his voice deadpan enough that one of the chantry members stares at him in abject horror until Prompto tries to stifle a laugh, indicating that the new herald is, in fact, joking.

Noct pushes open the door, and is immediately met by Chancellor Roderick ordering the guards, “Chain him. I want him prepared for travel to the capital for trial.”

“Disregard that, and leave us,” Cassandra immediately barks, with Leliana nodding in agreement. Behind Noctis, Ignis grips the hilts of his daggers and Gladio looms over them, just daring them to try. Prompto just smiles and makes a shooting-gun motion with his fingers. From this display, the guards decide to follow Cassandra’s advice and depart the room, heads down so as not to make eye contact with Noctis or his friends.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker,” Roderick all but spits as Noctis and his friends enter the room.

Cassandra continues to be unfazed by the chancellor’s threats. “The Breach is stable, but still a threat. I will not ignore it.”

“Do we have any idea why it didn’t close all the way?” Noctis asks, following the seeker’s lead and ignoring the chancellor.

Cassandra shakes her head. “From what Solas has gathered, we need more power to close the Breach. Your mark is strong enough to close the smaller rifts, but for all the power you have, you are still but one man.”

“One man he may be, but we know he’s not acting alone,” Chancellor Roderick interrupts, pacing around the quartet. Noctis wonders if he doesn't realize he's unwanted, or does and keeps talking just to spite them. “Even if you insist that Andraste chose the one—utter nugwash, I assure you—you have no proof that one of these other three is not the saboteur.” Prompto shies away from the chancellor’s judgmental gaze, while Gladio crosses his arms and glares down at him. No emotion passes Ignis’ face as he nonchalantly unsheathes one of his daggers and begins to clean it.

“Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone most holy did not expect.” Leliana admits, and for a moment, arrogant vindication reaches the chancellor’s face. The expression is dashed moments later; “Perhaps they died with the others—or have allies who yet live.” Her serene, almost sweet face seems to shift—a tight smirk at the corners of her lips, a narrowing of the eyes as her hands clasp together—which tells the chancellor exactly what she’s implying. He sputters and denies that he could ever be a suspect, but that knowing grin never leaves Leliana’s otherwise placid face.

“She’s impressive,” Prompto mutters under his breath.

“Indeed,” Ignis admits, calmly sliding his dagger back into its sheath. “I could stand to learn a few things from her.” Watching Leliana in action, and noticing again the copious amounts of daggers on her person (and likely more hidden in her cloak), Noctis decides that this would be a dangerous idea for everyone involved.

The prince tunes back into the conversation just as the chancellor sputters, “So their survival is a coincidence? That thing on his hand, their supposed ignorance about this world—all of that, you’d call coincidence?”

Cassandra answers, “Providence. The Maker sent him, all of them, to us in our darkest hour.” She doesn’t voice this as an opinion or a theory, but on par with a royal decree. There is a faith behind those words that is unwavering. (It reminds Noctis of the brief time he spent with Luna as a child, how much she believed in him and in her own role as the Oracle. Whever she is, he hopes she’s alright.)

“You do remember that I’m from another world entirely, right?” Noctis can’t help but ask (he can't forget, remembering his childhood friend and bride-to-be). “Why would your Maker send me, when I’m not even from his world?”

Her words do not falter; there is only the slightest moment of doubt behind her eyes. “I cannot claim to know his mind. Perhaps we have strayed so far from His teachings, that even one who does not know His world is more worthy than the rest of us.”

“Or he’s a warning of what we could become, if we’re not careful,” Chancellor Roderick suggests. “Just listen to them. Do they sound like they’ve ever had a devout thought in their entire lives?”

“Wanna’ come over here and listen up?” Gladio’s thinly-veiled threat isn’t helped by the way he cracks his knuckles. His menace when he usually knows how to be charismatic in a pinch like this is almost confusing, but then he winks at Noctis.

The chancellor swiftly rises to the bait and begins to chide the guardians because “this is exactly what I mean!” Noctis takes the hint to back away from the irate chantry member and over to Cassandra and Leliana. The three of them watch a moment as Gladio and Ignis continue to goad the chancellor, while Prompto contributes by photographing the argument and darting away when caught in the act.

Cassandra finally speaks to him, bearing just enough tact to keep her voice low. “I do not know why you were brought to our side, and I admit, I do not know how to return you to your home. I understand if, given the circumstances, you do not wish to trust us. But know that while some believe you are chosen, others still find you guilty. We can only protect you if you stay with us.” 

“And should you help us close the Breach, we will in turn do all we can to help you,” Leliana adds in a secretive murmur more natural than her speaking voice. “We may not yet know as much as other sources in this world, but the price for their secrets is far steeper than ours.”

“Sure. All I have to do is save the world.” If he keeps saying it so carelessly, maybe it will be so simple. Like marrying Luna, forging a peace treaty between warring empires, and eliminating the daemons of his world. Easy.

Does he really have any other option, though? This isn’t just traveling the road from Insomnia to Altissa; they have no allies here, no clue how anything works, and it seems both he and Prompto are considered dangerous by anyone outside this village. Besides, it seems he suddenly has a following, whatever it means to be the Herald of Andraste to these people. If the one source of hope they have decides to walk out on them, he can guarantee they’ll rip him away from his guardians and drag him back to the Breach themselves. And he isn’t the sort to cut down innocent people just to save himself.

Neither are his friends, he thinks as he watches them distract (perhaps ‘torment’ is more accurate) the chancellor. Gladio says something ‘heretical’ that causes Chancellor Roderick to retort in a frenzy, only for Ignis to circle his words against him with cool logic and a knowing smirk. Right when the chancellor finally regains enough of his wits in order to argue back, Prompto practically throws himself in the way for a selfie, which only irritates the irate cleric even more. Noctis will have to ask to see the photos later, while figuring out how to get all of them home, and alive in the meantime. Cassandra and her allies may well have the only solutions for all that.

His eyes catch Leliana’s hooded gaze first. She smiles as if she followed his train of thought and approves of the station it reached. Then he faces Cassandra, sharp and honest as the scars on her face. She regards him the way one would an injured animal offered food, waiting to see if it would accept the help or hiss and hide away.

Noctis offers her his un-marked hand. “Never been a fan of demons myself. If you think I can knock out that Breach, count me in.”

Her grip is as firm as one would expect from a battle-scarred soldier. The handshake ends as the chancellor notices and pulls away from his teasing tormentors to ask what Cassandra thinks she’s doing. She responds by grabbing a leather-bound tome Leliana hands her and slamming it down on the table, hard enough that the room itself seems to flinch.

“You know what this is, chancellor? A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

Were this a movie, Noctis can imagine the way the scene would freeze as everyone took a collective gasp, the way the music would go completely dead before slowly building back up as an inspiring speech began, the camera slowly panning over awed faces. But this isn’t a movie, and Cassandra isn’t the sort to give anyone the time to consider the implications of her decree. She marches to Chancellor Roderick with enough authority that even Gladio makes quick work getting out of her way.

“We will close the Breach. We will find those responsible. And we will restore order, with or without your approval.” With each declaration, she jabs her finger into his chest in the same way that Noctis had seen her repeatedly stab her sword into the larger demons. He’s almost surprised that she doesn’t draw blood. “Do I make myself clear, Chancellor?”  
He isn’t brave enough to shout over a will that eclipses his own. Chancellor Roderick somehow manages to weasel away from Cassandra and sprint out the door, not even wasting time to ask Andraste to curse the lot of them. His departure is met with a collective sigh of relief.

Ignis is the first to break the silence. “Much as I wish it were otherwise, I fear he will not be the last irate cleric we face.” He looks to Cassandra and Leliana as if hoping they will dispute this.

Cassandra shakes her head. “There are still good clerics. Ones who put the needs of the people before their own. But they were in short supply already, and many of them perished alongside Divine Justinia.” Her fingers briefly tighten their hold on the tome. “Those who remain will not help us. They will be too concerned in naming the next Divine and awaiting her orders. The Breach will not give us that time.”

“So we’ve got a few clocks to race, huh? Seal the Breach before it spits out too many demons, and before the Chantry can get its act together and decide what to do about us.” Prompto glances between the group before settling on Noctis. “Er, is that what we’re doing? Helping stop the Breach?”

“We’ve got no other leads for getting home—or getting this thing off my hand.” Noctis waves his marked hand at his guardians; he immediately regrets doing so when he sees them wince at the sight, the worry in their eyes and disgust curling the corners of their lips. “Hey, it’s okay. I mean, it doesn’t hurt anymore. It just…doesn’t match my eyes, y’know?”

The levity eases the worry from Prompto’s face, and Ignis tries to look convinced for the prince’s sake. Gladio’s still more reserved than when he and Noctis first met as children, with his arms crossed and expression still as if he were a statue. He doesn’t look away from the mark’s glow, not until he notices his prince staring at him. “You’re right. We’ve got no other leads. And if we charge off on our own, we’ll end up getting eaten by a…behemoth, or a dragon? Any of those in this world?”

An amused Leliana says, “You should ask the woman who fought one in the Grand Cathedral.”

Cassandra responds with an exasperated groan. “That was one dragon. You yourself have fought…at least three?”

“One was an archdemon, the other a swamp witch with powerful shapeshifting magics, and the last…well, that one was a real dragon, even though there was a cult in this very village that suggested otherwise. If not for all the demons from the Breach, I could show you where it was slain.” Leliana explains this as if she were just discussing a grocery list, but even though Noctis has no idea what an archdemon is, he has a feeling that he’d be in awe if he actually knew anything about this world. “Point being, we are tied at best, so worry not about dragons during your stay here. Now Cassandra, about the Inquisition…”

Prompto leans over and mutters to the others, “The fact that we might’ve just stumbled into a holy war aside…they’re joking about the dragons, right? Actual giant dragons, like other than Bahamut, aren’t real? Right?!”

Noctis has a bad feeling, and judging by the way Gladio looks away from them, he’s sure his fears are founded. Then Ignis explains, “As a matter of fact, the current time period here is known as the Dragon Age, due to the sudden resurgence of dragons in this world…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might go back and fiddle with this more later, but the important beats are here, and that's what matters. Also that we're finally out of the prologue, and it only took us...four chapters, huzzah!  
> (I don't anticipate the rest of the fic being quite this slow, but I felt getting the opening close to DA:I's was important. There will be plenty more liberties taken later, don't you worry...)


	5. Man or Ash

The next few weeks are simultaneously all too fast and achingly slow. Cassandra and Leliana guide their Inquisition through its infancy while Noctis and his friends try to learn as much as they can about Thedas, the world they are now trying to rescue. This boils down to three of them losing focus and Ignis having to repeat every lesson—save for Prompto’s solo magic lessons with Solas, which according to the elf, he’s picking up surprisingly quickly.  
When Noctis has a moment of free time, it’s usually snatched up by the soldiers and pilgrims who all want to meet their supposed savior; he only finds time to escape with his friends (or Varric, perhaps the one person around here who cares if the prince gets a moment to breathe) late at night when everyone else is asleep. 

Then comes the Longest Walk in the History of Forever (thusly named by Prompto). As Cassandra and company explains, they found a Chantry contact who might be able to help out the new Inquisition, but she needs to be rescued from the crossfire of a battle between the mages and the templars of the Hinterlands. Seeing as this world hasn’t invented cars yet, and chocobos don’t seem to exist either (and it seems the locals are out of “horses”, whatever those are, for them to borrow), they have to travel on foot through the Frostback Mountains and into the Hinterlands, a grueling travel that takes well over a week to complete. Even with the new leg brace that Harrit the blacksmith made for him (which looks far different from the king’s, thank goodness), Noctis still feels like his limbs are going to fall off the entire time.

“Remind me to never make fun of leg day again,” Prompto declares one morning as their journey resumes, everyone sore out of their minds but still too high up in the icy mountains to rest for a day. He allows himself a single moment to sigh into his camera, before realizing that even the merchant-guild dwarf has already outpaced him, and he stumbles trying to catch up.

Noctis thinks the Hinterlands are comparatively gorgeous in their verdant splendor (seriously, how can one place be so green?), at least when compared to miles of snow and jagged rocks. The air is cool instead of frigid, with neither howling winds nor the pervasive roar of engines from his homeworld. In fact, this place would be almost silent, if not for the clashing steel and exploding spells in the distance.

“The damage only spread since we arrived,” explains Scout Harding, a local dwarf who has been investigating the area. “We originally came here for Horsemaster Dennet—I grew up around here, and everyone knew he had the strongest, fastest horses this side of the Frostbacks. But with all the fighting going on, we’re not even sure if he’s still alive. If he’s been injured, he hasn’t made it to the crossroads yet—that’s where Mother Giselle’s tending the wounded. Or was. The fighting’s reached there too.”

So, not only did they have to rescue a Chantry Mother, but a horsemaster as well. Plus whatever civilians got caught in the crossfire. Noctis held in a sigh; he had a hard enough time keeping an eye out for his guardians in the heat of battle. “We’ll do whatever we can to help them.”

“And all of us here will do our best to support you,” Harding says. Though she looks young, certainly no older than Noctis, there’s a weariness in her eyes that seems to age her. All the Inquisition agents around here seem to have those same eyes.

Cassandra sticks around to ask for more details from the scouts, and Solas surveys the surroundings for himself, but Varric, standing off to the side, waves Noctis and his companions away from the group. “Just wanted to check in on you guys before we charged into the fray. Holding up alright?”

Ignis says, “We all seem to be in fair condition. That last camp has restored our stamina and spirits, our weapons are ready for combat, and we still have all the potions Adan provided us. And no one has contracted hypothermia from the mountains, thankfully.” He glances at the others in case anyone wants to add anything. Noctis just nods in response; he’s sore, but that’s to be expected, and the leg brace is helping keep him steady. He and Gladio had a quick spar at the last camp, so he knows he’ll be able to fight.

“Good to hear,” Varric says, but then he drops his voice. “I don’t know how common this is in your world—from what I’ve heard, I’m assuming not much—but I wanted to make sure you guys knew that we’ll be fighting people. Flesh-and blood people, with families and dreams and shitty ideas for books they’ll never write. Are you ready to deal with that?”

It takes a long moment for anyone to respond. They’ve heard stories of the wars, of course. The kingdom of Lucis has been at war with Niflheim since long before their births; that’s why Noctis is supposed to marry the Oracle, after all, as part of a peace treaty. He’s heard stories from the old times, when his and Gladio’s fathers fought side-by-side, with other legendary heroes like Cor the Immortal or his father’s own Kingsglaive. But Niflheim is predisposed to send demons in their stead, and Noctis and his friends have only killed monsters during their travels. Monsters may be living creatures, but there’s considerably less remorse when cleaning their ichor off one’s blade.

“We’ve trained for it,” Gladiolus answers, and Ignis nods in agreement. Of course they have; their job is to guard their prince from any enemy, magical or mundane. They must have made their peace with that years ago.

Prompto was not, so he stutters as he says, “I-I’ll be fine! I mean, I’ve played shooters, right? I’ll just…I’ll be okay.” He pauses. “Sure they’ll attack us, though? We’re a neutral party.”

“When mages or templars fight, anything that so much breathes around them is fair game.” There’s regret in Varric’s voice, as if he knows this fact far too well. “Besides kid, you’re a mage yourself, remember? These templars’ll hate you on sight. But since you haven’t claimed undying loyalty to mage freedom and blasted the rest of us off the map, the mages will be after you too. That’s just how extremists are.”

“And we’re supposed to get one of them to help us?” Noctis asks. As Solas had explained to them earlier, Noctis needed more power; according to Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine, only a large amount mages or the templars would to the trick.

“It’s a matter of finding the sane ones—the ones who aren’t trying to blow up the other side while taking the Hinterlands with them.” Again, it sounds like Varric has personal experience with this matter. He catches himself nervously wringing his hands, shaking the bitterness out before grabbing his crossbow. “Anyway, just wanted to make sure none of you were going to freeze up soon as a body hit the ground next to you. Try not to, but in case you do, Bianca and I will cover for you, okay?”

“Sounds fair to me,” Prompto says, taking a breath with the clear effort of trying to put the thought out murder of his mind. “I’m gonna’ go out on a limb and assume you’ve done this before? Like, a lot?”

Varric chuckles like no understatement has ever been greater. “Let’s just say that Bianca here’s broken a lot of hearts, and leave it at that.”

“Then remind me to never get on your bad side, or hers.” The calm voice of Solas cuts through their conversation like a sudden chill wind. He carries himself humbly, but still seems to loom over them, even though Gladio and Ignis are both taller than him. He nods at the prince and says, “While the fighting has not ceased, it seems to be at a low point now. We should hurry to the crossroads, before reinforcements arrive.”

Noctis clenches his fists, allowing his fingernails to dig into the mark on his palm.

Cassandra returns and leads them down a path, nowhere near as steep as the rest of the Frostback Mountains, and the sounds of fighting grow louder. There are screams of pain and the smell of burnt flesh, just like back at the Breach, but all the voices are all too human. Everyone’s hands twitch a little closer to their weapons. Varric tries to lighten the mood by saying, “At least it’s not an outbreak of the undead. Heard about that one yet? Kid possessed by a demon once got the corpses here to rise and swarm the castle at Redcliffe…”

“Am I the only one who thinks fighting zombies would be easier?” Prompto asks no one in particular.

He doesn’t get an answer, because their path leads right into the thick of a battle. Men and women, clad in armor smeared with soot and blood, charge with swords held high and shields before them. The mages look more vulnerable, until shimmering glyphs explore into ice around the charging templars, or a mage about to be struck down by a blade suddenly disappears into a hurricane of enchanted paper and flees up to an out-of-reach hill. Fireballs are blocked by shields, their follow-up spells cut off mid-chant by a blade to the throat. A fallen templar stuck in the ice reaches for a comrade to help her, only for her ally to be struck by lightning, falling to crush her with his corpse. Some of the injured try to crawl away to fight another day, but just as many use their dying breaths to take the closest enemy with them.

It would be hard enough to watch these men and women, humans and elves and even some dwarves, fighting each other to the death. The scent of blood is already getting to Noctis. But these fighters aren’t so blinded by rage as to not notice the new arrivals. “The apostates brought backup!” a templar cries, pointing his blade at Prompto and Solas. Noct’s friend cringes as he clutches his staff; Solas stands tall, as if daring the knight to come closer and repeat that to his face. A mage in the fray sees Cassandra’s shield, and the one Gladio borrowed from the Inquisition armory, and cries “Templars from the hills! Cut them off!” Their books and staves begin to glow.

“Nothing like a common enemy to unite a feud.” With a wave of his hand, Solas causes a ring of fire to surround the closest charging templars. Prompto shuts his eyes as he summons a lightning bolt on the trapped soldiers. An enemy mage is about to fire something at them, only for a trio of arrows to embed in his chest, neck, eye. With her path cleared from the enemy templars already activating the glyphs, Cassandra charges forward to fight a mage that appeared nearby before he can plant more of those ice-bombs, while Gladio chases down a templar in full armor.

Noctis jolts as something taps his shoulder.

“It’s just me,” Ignis says calmly, his daggers at ready. “Are you going to be alright?”

Astrals preserve him. “Just show me where to start. Let’s make this quick.”

“Then follow my lead.” From his vantage point on the hill, Ignis quickly scopes out the battlefield and throws his daggers in quick succession, embedding in mages and  
templars alike. Noctis follows the blades like they’re lifelines, allowing the power pooled in his arm to carry him and his sword slicing into each one. The last dagger embeds itself in another one of those armored templars, and Noctis slams right into his sword-arm and brings them both crashing to the ground. The templar is slow but as strong as expected, grabbing Noctis with his now-free hand and slamming him onto his back. He raises his shield, prepared to smash it into Noct’s face.

Desperately seeking an opening, Noctis takes his blade and strikes it up into the man’s neck. It catches the chainmail before sliding in. There’s a sick gurgle. Dripping.

Noctis throws his blade and follows it anywhere, which turns out to be right into a mage preparing an ice spell. The cold spreads up Noct’s arm like he’d fallen into the snow in the Frostbacks, but at least it’s not the warmth of bleeding and dying. Noct swings wide to shake the ice off, and the mage slides away to block the blow with her staff. It takes all the prince has to think instead of swinging wildly; he can’t let a fight get to his head, even in the case of…this. Instead of wailing into the staff while the mage prepares a spell, he’s smart enough to fake a strike before striking low, taking out the mage’s knee and causing her to crumple. He knows how much that hurts.

He points the sword at her chin, but looks her in the eyes instead (there’s no blood there). “You don’t have to do this. Leave.”

She clutches her knee and gasps for air as she looks up at him. Noctis almost misses the way her wide, elven eyes flicker to her right.

He swings to face it, but not in time; a templar blade swings down and almost cleaves off his arm. Then Cassandra rushes him with a shield, knocking him off balance, then slides her sword across his side before he can recover. He falls. She kicks the sword out of his hand.

“There’s no time to ask for mercy,” Cassandra says. Then she’s gone again, blade ready to disrupt a mage with his staff aimed at Prompto and Varric. Between them, Solas unleashes a swarm of magical blasts from his staff, while Gladio keeps another armored templar off his back, and Ignis pries his lance from out of a robed chest.

They’re giving it their all. So can he. Noctis wipes away the blood that had dripped onto his face and warps back into the fray.

* * *

“What the hell was that about?”

Noctis turns around and faces his shield. The battle is done, the path to the crossroads clear. Up ahead, chantry priests and mages of healing work on the wounded, as other displaced citizens try to fix their homes or find supplies. But before Noctis can seek out Mother Giselle, he’s pulled aside at the outskirts of the battlefield.

“The hell was what about?” Noctis asks, though he full well knows the answer.

“That fight. Do you think this is a joke?” Gladio gestures at the bodies in the dirt behind them, armor and robes alike stained with blood. “You could’ve been one of ‘em. Were you trying to let them stab you? Or were you trying to bait them by just standing still in the middle of the battle?”

“I handled it, didn’t I? None of this blood’s mine.”

“Yeah, because the rest of us kept having to cover for you.” Gladio’s hand balls into a fist. He forces it down to his side, channeling his energy into pacing around the prince before he does something worse. “Look, I get that this is hard. It’s hard for all of us, and we don’t even have a stake in this world. But you can’t be selfish and let this get to your head. A second’s hesitation could lose you everything, and I’m not dragging your corpse back to the king’s throne.”

“And who’s going to drag these people home?” He doesn’t want to, but Noctis can’t help but look at the battlefield again. The bodies. “I know they attacked us first, and it was them or us. But why the hell did that have to happen? Why couldn’t they stop instead of forcing us to kill them?” He swallows a breath of air that should be clean, but tastes cloyingly raw instead. “I didn’t want to kill them. I said it. Happy?”

“Sure, your highness. I couldn’t possibly understand that you had a problem.” It looks like it’s taking all Gladiolus has to not punch something as hard as possible.  
Noctis finally looks his shield, his friend, in the eyes. Gladio seems paler than normal, which only makes the blood on his face stand out all the more. His grimace twitches, as if he’s on the verge of screaming.

“Gladio—”

“You think I felt any differently? That I wanted to kill them? I didn’t—none of us did. But we can’t think about that if we want to survive and make it home. You’re not the only one suffering here, Noct—but you’re also the only hope we’ve got. You can’t show weakness like that.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” His voice raises despite his best intentions; with this on top of the battle, this journey, this entire other world, he’s starting to fray at the seams. “You saying I shouldn’t care? Fight off anyone that gets between me and home, is that it?”

“What I’m saying is—”

A voice, worn but calming like a long night’s drive, cuts through their argument with quiet words. “Do not fight each other for feeling compassion. It may be painful to bear, but it is far more dangerous to lose.” A warm, leathery hand grabs Noct’s hand, the other resting on Gladio’s forearm. The woman they belong to has a kind face, almost serene despite the chaos. “You are not the only ones troubled; our whole world is. But that is why you are here, is it not?”

Noctis doesn’t know. He’s not sure of anything anymore, and all these emotions are cluttering together in his chest. He takes another breath and tries not to smell the battlefield. “Mother Giselle, I’m guessing?”

She bows her head. “I am, and you must be the one they are calling the Herald of Andraste. I thank you for answering my call.” She turns her serene gaze up at Gladio. “You are his brother in arms, yes?”

“I…yeah. I am.” Gladio is still taken aback at being interrupted. The rage he was building up begins to fade, the tension fading out of his shoulders as his fist uncurls. “Sorry. We just…”

“I am not the one you need apologize to.” Seems she’s nothing if not to the point. “I understand that our world must be far darker than the Silver City. More violent. There is concern over how those from the Maker’s home would judge our world. But what I see is two men who worry about others, even those who would be their enemies, as much as they worry about each other.” 

Her hold on them is firm and warm, as if she can help them hold onto this empathy. “If we can show this kindness to those who would denounce you out of fear, we may yet have a chance. For now, lay down your swords and walk with me. We are safe, and have much to discuss.”

* * *

“Solas? Are the templars going to keep attacking us on sight, as long as you and I are with the others?”

Even though Prompto has a few inches on Solas, it always feels like the elf is looking down on him when he speaks. “Whether or not we accompanied the others, they would doubtlessly be attacked by both sides of this rebellion. Without us, they would be fewer in number, and less equipped to fight all their combatants. Furthermore…” He pauses before he can continue his lecture, eyebrows creasing in something akin to concern. “What is really bothering you, Prompto?”

The two apostates, reluctant teacher and student, paused their trek up the hill. Prompto had decided to stay out of everyone’s hair by acting as lookout for the crossroads (and hopefully, he could catch a nice photograph while all was calm), and Cassandra had reminded Solas that he needed to look out for his new pupil At All Times when combat was a possibility. Not that it seems Solas minds getting away from the soldiers and the chanters, but Prompto still feels a little bad that the elf is stuck by his side.

Prompto pulls out his camera and begins to focus it on the mountains ahead. “I know I’ve asked you this already. Like, a lot. But are you sure, absolutely positive, that I’m not going to get possessed by a demon out of the blue?”

To his credit, Solas isn’t annoyed by the question. If anything, he seems a little saddened by it. He scans the horizon as he explains, “To begin, the Breach complicates matters. Possessions only occur when a spirit wants to experience the physical plane—and demons, they only appear when a spirit’s existence is twisted by mortal comprehension. The Breach allows them to enter our world, converting their own energies into physical form. They have no need to steal a living body if they can use their own, understand?”

Prompto nods, though the logic is poor comfort. “But if we close the Breach, and we’re still stuck here, then I might be?” He hopes not. The demons they fought at the Breach were bad enough in the flesh; he could only imagine one wearing his skin, forcing him to imitate that creepy, prideful laugh…

Solas shakes his head. “Because you were not raised in this world, were not brought to equate spirits and demons as one and the same during your upbringing, I believe not. You could understand their nature. It is like…”

As the elf trails off in his search for an analogy, sets up a shot of the crossroads below. If he looks closely, he can see the forms of Cassandra and Ignis speaking with some of the Inquisition scouts, likely gathering more information, as Varric sits nearby cleaning Bianca. And there are Noctis and Gladio, their black outfits in sharp contrast to the warm colors of the Hinterlands, walking alongside Mother Giselle. Prompto releases a sigh he hadn’t realized he was holding; Noctis had a few close calls during the earlier fight, and while Gladio hadn’t been harmed, the shield had been far more unsettled than he’d admit. When the two had hung back to talk (which honestly, Prompto’s surprised they didn’t start sparring in the middle of the battlefield), he’d feared the worst.

(To Prompto’s credit, he’d survived the fight and hadn’t had a meltdown. Or even thrown up!...Okay, maybe he’d dry-heaved into a bush, but that was it.)

Prompto takes a picture of the buildings below, but the glare of the sun ruins the color balance. He goes into the menu to edit this, unaware that Solas is watching over his shoulder until the elf speaks up again.

“Think of it like this. You may change these pictures at will, but you explained to me earlier that once the original is altered, it is difficult to return to the way it once was, correct?” Prompto nods, so Solas continues, “Think of spirits as like photographs, and demons are…what you would call a certain style of photograph. One that only the most depraved enjoy.”

“Like those people who have to plaster sepia tone on everything.” Prompto is a little amused when he notices the elf’s, for once, confused gaze. “It’s a filter. It’s supposed to make a photo look like it came straight outta’ ancient history, but it just makes everything look washed-out and gross.” He quickly edits his photo to reflect this, the beautiful color fading to the browns of dying leaves.

“I see. Much like how…” Solas sounds about to insult someone in his too-smooth manner, but stops himself from finishing his thought. “Never mind. Now, for this analogy, imagine everyone is taught to place a sepia filter over every photograph before it is printed. But in the process of printing, the photograph is ruined—and this happens every time, without fail, save for the few who skirt these rules and use another filter. Or, stars forbid, print it untainted. But because of this history of horrid sepia photographs, all photographers are banned from printing and making something so awful, even though a change of methods could create a true work of art.”

Prompto thinks about this a long moment. The wind plays with his hair. “So if printing is possession, then everyone thinks that a spirit has to exist a certain way—which is being a demon. Most people don’t know they can accept a spirit as it is, right?” By the Six, Prompto hopes he’s gotten this right. Solas is a smart guy, but the way he looks at people who don’t follow what he says is…a look he’d rather avoid. Like Ignis without coffee, but all the time.

Instead, Solas…smiles? Yes, wow, that’s a smile. Prompto wasn’t sure that was even possible. “That is exactly it. A spirit can be turned demonic by the wrong mental filter. But allow it to just be, and they can be stalwart companions and true allies.”

Now this makes more sense than all those boring scrolls Ignis had grabbed for him. Also a relief that he’s not going to suddenly turn on his friends in exchange for being able to shoot lightning from his fingers. Prompto removes the sepia filter from his photo and finishes fixing it as he says, “Thanks Solas. Hey, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’d worked with cameras before. Got the terminology down pat!”

“All I did was listen. A skill that has led me to uncover endless histories in my travels…you would be surprised how rare it is, in this world.”

“Mine too, I think. Some things are universal, I guess?” Prompto shrugs and looks around for another shot. Wait, is that a glowing skull up there? Creepy, but also kind of cool! “Hey Solas, know what that is? Can we check it out?”

The two apostates continue their trek up the hill. The student discovers the existence of crystal shards across the landscape, seen through the eyes of the glowing skull, and wonders where they lead. The teacher, much to his bemusement, is taught what a selfie is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to anyone who is a fan of sepia-toning their photography.
> 
> Also, I wanted to thank all of you who have kudo'd, bookmarked, and commented on this piece so far! I never realized folks would enjoy it so much; you guys make my day! (And I swear, I will reply to those comments someday, hopefully soon.) <3's to all of you~


	6. Stare Too Long

There is a stark difference between peace and a truce. Any child who grew up in Insomnia knows this, knows the dread clinging like static whenever a truce inches closer to war. Some ignore it and bury their heads, often drinking up alcohol and gossip in equal turn. Others horde supplies and practice wetting their blades with the blood of monsters, praying that they’ll never face another man but doubtful of these prayers being answered. But most of them pretend they aren’t thinking about it, and try to stand firm when all they want to do is run.

Ignis finally gets the smudges out of his glasses, pleased that his vision is crystal clear once more. Out of the corners of his eyes, oh-so-slightly blurry until his specs are back on, he can see Gladio and Prompto helping pack up camp. Noctis went ahead with the others native to this world to speak with Horsemaster Dennet, seeing as the homestead has not yet been engulfed in conflict. Quite a boon, in Ignis’ opinion; Mother Giselle was able to calm the prince and the shield, but both of them are still shaken by that first battle. That’s a truce if Ignis has ever seen one; their words are stilted and uneasy, and they’re as quick to defend each other from shadows as they are other warriors. Or bears, as was the case with one fight earlier.

(For looking so drab, the Ferelden fauna is nevertheless remarkably fierce. They used half of their potions, amongst their party of seven, against one bear. They should be thankful that the rifts spew out demons instead of more bears…)

“Hey Iggy, what d’you think horses look like?” Prompto asks as he bounds over, camera in one hand and a glowing blue shard in the other. He and Solas had been tracking these shards since the crossroads, though their acquisition seemed to involve Prompto falling off of high places more than anything. “I mean, the Inquisition wants a lot of them, so think they need it for an army? Like chocobo knights! Though, do horses have wings?”

“I somehow doubt that, Prompto. From what I have read, they are mammals with four legs, and hooves. Like a hornless spiracorn.”

Prompto makes a face, likely at the idea of riding something with four legs that could easily rear up and buck him off. “Well, guess I’ll keep climbing things without help. But one of those shards looks so high up…”

“Guess I’ll have to toss you up there, then,” Gladio says as he rejoins them. As if to prove his point, he scoops up Prompto with one arm and swings him around before setting him back on his feet. The gesture makes him seem at ease, but he can’t shake how forced his smile is. Ignis hopes the shield will regain his bearings soon; they all need to be at the top of their game in this world.

(Ignis does not think about that first fight, about the squelching sound his lance made when pulled out of a mage’s chest. He knows he can’t ignore it forever, but for now, he’ll focus on learning all he can about this world to drown everything else out. It’s worked with all the other worries he’s ever had.)

Seeing as Noctis and the others have yet to return, Ignis goes over their supplies once more. Potions have been restocked, as well as a few concoctions made with lyrium—blue this time, not that glowing crimson from the Breach—for Prompto and Solas, as it seems to help them restore their mana faster. He makes note of what they have been requested to gather for requisitions and the requests of townsfolks, as well as the various plants and metals that Gladio has found so they can ask the others which ones are actually of use, which ones are toxic, and which ones Ignis is allowed to experiment with in cooking.

There is also the question of what to do with this dagger he’s found on a corpse. Acquiring resources from enemies is nothing new to Ignis; he’s gutted monsters they’ve fought to cook with their meat, and he understands the necessity of not letting goods go to waste in wartime. Still, something feels strange in his chest when he turns over this worn dagger, one that nearly pierced his own heart. The craftsmanship isn’t anything to write home about (as if that were still a possibility), but it’s sharp, the weight distribution makes sense…and there are initials carved into the hilt. Who it was for and why is now lost; is it better to leave it with the body it was meant to protect, or keep it for its intended purpose?

Ignis examines his own daggers, meant for little more than basic self-protection. He inwardly sighs. He may not like this looting, but he must be as prepared as possible to protect the prince and their friends. Waste not, want not; that’s the reality of this world.

“Find a new weapon?” That’s Noctis at his shoulder; even in this faraway land, Ignis is so used to his charge’s footfalls that he heard the approach.

“Your observation skills remain sharp,” Ignis replies with a wink. He slides the new weapon into its sheathe, wondering if his old blade can at least be disassembled into something useful. “Did you find Master Dennett?”

“And did you see any horses?” Prompto asks, camera already in hand.

Noctis nods; “Yeah, and yeah again. The horses are…bigger than I expected. But Dennett said he’ll give us some if we help him out, and Cassandra agreed to teach us how to ride.” If Ignis looks past the prince, he can see Cassandra at the edge of camp, already regretting this decision. Varric laughs at her sour expression. Solas, as usual, seems to be examining the fringes of camp for something only he knows. “We’ve just got to help set up some watchtowers, and clear out a pack of wolves. Which sounds like some kind of dog?”

“Seems to be, but fiercer and untamed. A far cry from Umbra and Pryna, I’m sure.” Ignis tries to sort out what he’s read from all of his research; trying to keep all the myths and facts straight is more of a challenge than he’d like to admit. “I believe there is also a trickster figure of sorts in elven lore? The damned wolf?”

Varric corrects, “The Dread Wolf, and yeah, he’s a bit of a trickster. Bit hard not to, being the Elven God of Betrayal himself. Merril—old friend of mine from back in Kirkwall—she’s told me a few stories about him.” He looks up at Solas. “Ever heard the one about the time the Dread Wolf had a tussle with a keeper’s Mabari?”

The apostate rolls his eyes, though he seems reluctantly amused. “Me? How could I, in all my travels amongst the spirits to gather the lost histories of this world, have ever heard the tale of the Dread Wolf and the Mabari? What a fantastic tale I must have missed out on. Go on, do regale it to us as we walk.”

Varric winks as he says, “What, sarcasm? And here I thought you were above petty things like that. Well, if you insist…” The dwarf waves the others along to follow him as they leave the camp, and he begins his tale. 

Glancing over everyone’s formation as they leave, Ignis chooses to bring up the rear in case of an ambush. Plenty of places for foes to hide after all, from the trees surrounding the farm to the mountains curled around them, every outcrop of stone a possible perch for an archer or mage. He finds himself walking alongside Cassandra, the only other person not paying attention to the dwarf’s story. When Ignis gives her a querying look, she answers, “I have heard this tale before.”

“Yes—he was here because you were interrogating him, if I heard correctly?”

Cassandra half-sighs, half-groans as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “For better or worse. You must understand, I only questioned him because of his ties to the Mage Rebellion in Kirkwall, which started this whole mess. I hoped that his ally, Hawke, might be of some assistance…but Varric was more interested in telling a story. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say stories are all he is…but I digress. He did try to distract my investigation several times by hiding tales within other tales, such as this one.”

“Quite a tactic. If only the Breach could be distracted by stories.” Up ahead, the others gasp at some twist in the tale, something about a dedicated hound breaking into its owner’s dreams to chase away the Dread Wolf. Varric is animated in the telling, which helps give the others a moment to forget the weights on their shoulders.

Cassandra cracks a small smile. “If that were so, we could just leave Varric up on that mountain, and all our problems would be solved.” She grows quiet as they reach the others, waiting for the others to cross before speaking again. “No, not all of them. There is still the matter of the red lyrium that we saw at the Breach. Not even Varric is immune to its effect.”

“What exactly does it do?” Ignis asks, crossing the river with care so the water doesn’t soak through his shoes. He remembers what the dwarf told them at the Breach, about it driving folks mad or turning them into statues, but nothing else he’s read has mentioned it.

Cassandra shakes her head, striding through the river without hesitation. “I only know what Varric has told me, but even a small statue was enough to sway his brother toward betrayal, and for the Knight Commander of Kirkwall to forsake her city and its people in her crusade against the mages. It is more concerning to see it aboveground, and so much of it at that.”

Even though Ignis cannot remember the red lyrium’s song—thank the Six for that—he remembers the effect it had on him. While he’d remained aware of the task at hand, reaching the Breach and keeping Noctis safe, all he could think about was trying to figure out that song, how the red lyrium was producing it and what it meant. The battle against the pride demon had erased that urge through pure adrenaline, but he’s sure he would’ve gone back to investigating it, had Noctis not fallen unconscious. The thought alone is disconcerting; even if the Breach is sealed, what of the red lyrium?

No, don’t get too attached to this world, Ignis reminds himself. The others ahead may be laughing at Varric’s tale, but there’s still an edge of unease in their voices, and scars decorate their limbs courtesy of enemies they never should’ve faced. (To say nothing of the sickening glow of Noct’s mark…) This world may need them, but it is not home.

He and Cassandra catch up with the others as Noctis and Prompto try to convince a runaway druffalo to return back to Dennett’s farm. The druffalo is unharmed, unaware of the danger and thus stubbornly refusing to move despite Prompto’s cajoling. It’s almost comical to watch, until the ravine is filled with echoing howls belonging to beasts just out of sight.

“Anything important we ought to know about these wolves?” Ignis asks as his fingers curl around the unfamiliar hilt of his new dagger, thumb brushing against forgotten initials.

Cassandra puts up her shield, and takes her place at the front of the group with Gladio. “They are fast, and fight as a pack. Do not be surrounded by them.” This sounds similar to the sabertusks they’d fought back home, mostly around the Hammerhead and other wide-open spaces. He’ll have to keep an eye on Noctis; the prince has faced such fangs more than once, especially if he doesn’t watch his energy and warps too much. To make sure of this, Ignis takes to the middle of the group and stands beside his prince.

Next to them, Varric loads a crossbow bolt into place. “As Merril used to say, may the Dread Wolf take them.” Was it a trick of the light, or did Solas smirk at that?

No time to guess; the ravine has lead to a lair that almost seems like a room carved into the rocks, and in the middle of this wolf pack looms one of the demons gifted with teleportation. The wolves growl, their eyes glazed over with the same green as the demon (and the mark, that damnable mark…)

Noctis keeps his gaze ahead at their foes. “Ignis, instructions?”

“On your mark, Noct.” He lets the daggers fly.

While Ignis would not know if these wolves are in fact stronger than the norm or not, he knows this battle is both faster and fiercer. With a demon in their midst, no one pauses to question if these foes are in the wrong or not. These aren’t thinking, living beings caught up in a war painted in shades of gray, but animals swayed by dark forces. Gladio cleaves his blade into a wolf’s side with the same lack of hesitation as Cassandra, and Noctis practically flows across the battlefield as he warps in to strike and flickers away from blows. Magic and crossbow bolts rain over the demon before it can burrow away.

It’s easy to ignore the blood on one’s hands without a moral quandary attached.

The fight is over before it’s barely begun. Ignis paces across the battlefield to make sure no additional forces wait in the wings, but all he finds are bones long gnawed clean scattered in corners of this not-quite cave. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gladio trying to get a high-five from Cassandra, who shakes her head dismissively before Prompto bounds in and high-fives the shield back. Noctis pulls what looks like a primitive necklace from the demon’s remains, metal glinting green across his marked palm, while Solas theorizes what may have possessed their foe to use wolves as its minions instead of people.

“Hey, Specs. Believe this is yours?” There’s Varric at his elbow, offering up a dagger which had struck one of the wolves blind. 

“It is, thank you.” Ignis takes the blade and pulls out a cloth to clean it before he even recognizes that it’s the new dagger, pausing at the sight of the initials on the hilt.

Varric notices, reaching up to clap Ignis on the back. “I don’t use daggers much, but I’ve been nearly stabbed by enough of ‘em that I can tell that this is a good blade. Better that you use it, instead of leaving it in the dirt.” Ignis is about to agree when the dwarf adds, “On a battlefield, everything has a story. Don’t get caught up trying to chase all the plot threads, okay? Can’t worry about all the other unfinished stories if we want ours to finish with a happy ending.”

He has a point, of course. Even if Ignis isn’t focusing on the blood on his hands, he’s worrying about others in his own way. A natural response, but if he wants to keep his wits about him and help Noctis…

“Do you only speak in terms of stories, Varric?”

“Not always. Once held a whole conversation using only Wicked Grace terms. Don’t suppose that’s a game where you’re from?” He winks, a silent offer for a reprieve from the advisor’s worries.

With a shake of his head, Ignis makes a truce with himself and allows Varric and the others to distract him as they return to Dennett’s farm.

* * *

“Birds? You’re telling me that your lot doesn’t ride horses, but giant birds?”

Master Dennett has taken everything else in stride; being asked to join the Inquisition, agreeing to bring his horses along once the watchtowers are set up, even that the Inquisition plans to close the Breach for good. He’s even gave Noctis and his friends horses for the trip back, but he loses it when told that none of them had even seen a horse before. Prompto’s pictures of chocobos, fluffy and yellow with saddles softly settled atop their feathers, cause the horsemaster to nearly faint on the spot.

Hence the sudden and “absolutely imperative” lesson on how to ride horses. Noctis is trying not to cling onto the beasts’ mane for dear life, but a horse is far larger than any chocobo, or even the cars he’s so used to. The horse tilts its head toward Noctis and huffs through its nose. Noctis reaches out to pat its nose as he’d seen Dennett do, but the horse quickly turns its head away, a green glint briefly reflected in its eyes.

Even animals can’t stand the mark. Not that he can blame them.

“We’ll make sure to give them reins and saddles, but it is good you learn how to ride without. Just in case.” Cassandra stands beside him and the horse, trying not to show her amusement at the situation. Up ahead, Prompto is still busy taking photos from atop his horse instead of trying to actually ride it, Ignis has his horse trotting along under Dennett’s tutelage, and Gladio…Gladio seems to have figured out the horse fairly quickly, and is now talking with Dennett’s daughter about the finer details of horsemanship. Or…other things, this being Gladio. He’s lucky the horsemaster is distracted.

“When you are ready for it to move, you need to spur it forward. Ah…squeeze its side with your heels. Don’t kick it, just…well, how do you convince these birds to move?”

“Just a tug on the reins. Never rode a chocobo bareback before.” Noctis tries to follow her instructions, and the horse strides from its stall and into the field with the others. The scenery is like something out of a movie; blue skies lightly dotted with puffy white clouds, long grass and fields of grain swaying in the breeze, the world past the farm unmoving as if no war rages just past the hills.

Cassandra keeps pace beside Noctis and his horse for the time being, so he asks her, “How long have you been riding horses?”

“Since I was young—before I even learned how to swing a sword.”

“Your parents teach you?”

“No—they were executed when I was a child. They crossed the king, but he took my brother Anthony and I in, because we were family.” She shakes her head, though she seems oddly indifferent regarding her own parents. “Anthony was the one who taught me to ride, and to fight. He was a dragon hunter.” Here, the bitterness creeps into her voice, a sorrow still raw to even consider. All Noctis has to do is look at her for Cassandra to finish, “Before you ask, he is also dead.”

He can tell from her tone that prying would be a bad idea, so he settles for, “I’m…sorry to hear that. I never had siblings, but my parents are dead too.” Wait, why did he say that? His father’s health might be failing due to maintaining the Wall around Insomnia, but King Regis is still alive. An uncomfortable weight settles in his chest. “Well, my mother is. Dad isn’t actually dead, but it seems like that sometimes. All his energy goes to keeping everyone else safe. Guess I’ll do the same, one day.”

“So you are next in line for your throne. I had wondered.” The air feels stale around them for a moment, like all their allies are far away and the two of them are left in a bubble of sorrows and fears that neither of them want to touch. The horse, oblivious to the social tip-toeing, pauses its pacing to nibble a patch of grass.

“You…said you and the king were family. Does that mean…?”

“That I am Nevarran royalty, yes. But I am only the seventy-eighth in line for the throne, and I have no love for my home. Once Anthony was gone, so was I. It will not interfere with the Inquisition.” Cassandra brushes the horse’s neck with one gloved hand, coaxing it back to attention. “Let us forget about titles for now. So, if you would like the horse to gallop…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for posting this one late, since I had to restart it a couple times. As they say, writing is rewriting (and more rewriting, and more rewriting after that...)
> 
> I'll try to make the wait time for the next chapter shorter. And worry not; we'll be moving on to Orlais, much as I'm sure you'd *love* to watch me slowly write through *every quest* in the Hinterlands...


	7. Heaven's Not Overflowing

A few more days are spent in the Hinterlands, recruiting more members for the Inquisition and assisting all those displaced by the encroaching conflict. However, it’s not long before Noctis and his allies are saddled up and on their way to Val Royeaux. Every time they’re forced to fight the templars or mages (and the more blood they have to wipe off their blades), the clearer it becomes that even the threat of the Breach won’t stop the fighting in the mountains. The only way to get one of the sides to join them (and Noctis can’t avoid the fact that he needs help, there’s no way he can close the Breach with just his power alone) is to skip the warriors and go straight to the top.

Hence, the trip to Val Royeaux: Mother Giselle knows those in the Chantry who can be swayed to put the search for the new Divine on hold long enough to send help with closing the Breach. Many of the important templars are also stationed in Val Royeaux, so like Cullen, Cassandra has recommended speaking to them. The leaders of the mages, she explains, are harder to get ahold of—and since they’re fighting years of templar rule, far harder to work with.

(She doesn’t look at Solas and Prompto when she explains this, and it is clear how carefully she’s choosing her words. She doesn’t accuse their foes of channeling demons or blood, not to her allies’ faces. Noctis doesn’t miss how the smile fades from Prompto’s face as he slinks behind Gladio and Ignis, or how Solas’ gaze steels when he looks at the Seeker.)

So the travel to Val Royeaux finally begins, wrapped not in chains but heraldry. The Inquisition soldiers don’t watch Noctis and his friends, but keep their eyes trained for ambushes or Rifts along the road. When they do face a gang of bandits, the attackers are dispatched with startling efficiency. Some of the soldiers are still in awe when watching Noctis warp into the fray to stop a deadly blow, but the prince is just trying not to stare at the bandits’ dying eyes. The soldiers seem to shake off the fight as swiftly as it occurred. Even his friends seem able to put it out of their minds faster—or maybe, like him, they’re just getting better at hiding it.

The ride is long, though thankfully shortened by the acquisition of Dennett’s horses. The weather remains fair during their travels, and Prompto documents the landscapes with a plethora of photographs. The rest of the time is passed discussing history, tactics, or just swapping different stories from their respective worlds. Ignis tries to figure out if any Lucian myths parallel the tale of Andraste (the epic of The Star and the Summoner comes close, but ends up a subversion of the tale), which leads to Solas describing lost histories seen in the Fade. Noctis doesn’t fully listen to the tales, instead letting the flow of words and comradery ease his worries on the way to Orlais.

When he first sees Val Royeux, Noctis is reminded of the older buildings in Insomnia: those almost as old as the royal castle and trying to live up to the same splendor, but refusing to compromise authenticity for improvement. No matter how many times the gold is polished and the paints re-applied, age shows and the gold only becomes garish against the ageless chrome of the modern city. Even with nothing around to compare it to, Val Royeux seems a city purposeful in its gaudiness, flaunting to the world its dedication to excess even as the infrastructure begins to crack. There’s a rank smell of fish and debris lingering under the clouds of perfume.

“Did we just walk into a museum?” Gladio asks as they stride into the city, surrounded by a retinue of soldiers with their heads held high. The shield catches the citizens’ stares and whispers, almost hidden by glistening masks, and adds “Or a theater production?”

Ignis replies in a low voice, “If so, we’re the show they came to see. We must exercise caution—I would not be surprised if battles of words and wits are as fierce here as what we faced in the Hinterlands.” He continues his point silently by giving Noctis a once-over, pulling out a needle and thread to swiftly repair a wayward button before deciding the prince’s appearance is acceptable. He takes a longer time repairing Prompto’s appearance, if only because the photographer seems intent on cataloguing every square inch of the city with his camera.

An avenue filled with looming statues gives way to a city square beginning to crowd as a priestess of the Chantry begins to speak. “People of Val Royeaux, hear me!” she calls, her accent almost a caricature of Leliana’s. Cassandra nods her head toward the speech. Noctis shrugs and follows her as they join the crowd, Noct’s friends close at hand. He notes that Solas and Varric keep their distance near the fringes, the apostate in silent judgment and the dwarf searching the pouches on his belt for a quill.

The chanter continues from her raised wooden platform, “We are gathered here to mourn our Divine, her naive and beautiful heart silenced by treachery!” The people call in agreement. Noctis wonders if anyone who plans ahead of time to form a revolutionary force, such as what the Inquisition was meant to be, can really be called naive. “You wonder what will become of her murderer. Well, wonder no more! The so-called Herald of Andraste, claiming to rise where our beloved fell!”

She points, and the crowd parts like fish escaping a disturbance in their pond, leaving Noctis and his companions exposed for all to see. Noctis also sees that the chanter is surrounded by guards in gleaming metal armor, their chests bearing an insignia of a sword; the style looks similar to Cassandra’s, though nowhere near as battle-worn. Noctis resists the urge to reach for his blade, instead balling his hands into fists in a vain attempt to hide his mark.

“We say this is a false prophet,” the chanter continues, the crowd gasping at her accusations. “Not only does he claim to be from the Maker’s own sacred cities, but a prince of it as well...never has such heresy been heard in this fair city!”

Next to Noct’s side, Prompto cringes; the rumor of the supposed Silver City came from his photographs, after all. Gladio began to reach for his sword, only for Ignis to grab his wrist to stay the shield’s hand. No one speaks; the city waits, on baited breath, to hear the prince’s reply.

“I never said I was the Maker’s,” Noctis explains. It takes him a moment to gather the strength to meet the chanter’s eyes, to roll back his shoulders and stand as if he were an unmovable wall (like his father used to, back before he gripped his cane so tightly). “I’m not here to debate where I came from either. I just want to close the Breach.” And hope, nearly pray, that it lets them return home.

Cassandra steps forward to stand at Noct’s side and calls, “It’s true! The Inquisition only seeks to end this madness, before it is too late!”

“It is already too late!” the priestess calls back, and her words are followed by heavy metal footfalls. More armored men bearing the sword insignia march forward, armor almost blinding under the midday sun. She points to them and says, “The templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this ‘Inquisition,’ and the people will be safe once more!” The crowd cheers, but the templars to not acknowledge them. Their faces are grim, their eyes almost hollow—except for their leader, a proud-looking man, his silver hair swept back and a condescending glint in his eye as he passes the chanter. She looks on with similar smugness mingled with respect.

The expression is short lived as another armored man strides over and punches her in the back of the head. She falls face-first into the wooden platform, a trickle of blood trailing from under her hood and down her jawline.

Noctis grabs the hilt of his sword and is about to warp over when Ignis grabs his arm. “Don’t,” the advisor orders in a low voice. “Rushing in will only make matters worse.”

One of the other templars, a man with dark skin and close-shaved hair, seems similarly concerned and reaches out toward the chanter. His leader bats the man’s hand away and says, “Still yourself. She is beneath us.”

“Like that gives you any excuse to hit a lady!” Gladio bellows, pulling away from the others to stride toward the templars. Ignis cannot hold him back; the rest of the crowd shies further away from him. “Who the hell do you think you are, fighting the people you’re supposed to protect?”

“Lord Seeker Lucius,” Cassandra says, both by way of explanation and to call the man’s attention. “It is imperative that we speak with—”

“You will not address me,” the Lord Seeker orders as he steps off the platform, an arrogant smile playing across his face as he stops opposite Gladiolus. The shield is a larger and more imposing figure by far, even though the armor he’s gathered from the Hinterlands is haphazard and his skin is still littered with fresh scars that the potions couldn’t entirely heal over. The Lord Seeker does not waver as he speaks. “And who do you think you are, trying to assert yourself over the will of the Templar order? An ignorant fool, if nothing else.”

Gladio’s lips twist into a snarl. “Maybe, but try punching me down and see where that gets ya’.”

“If all the Inquisition’s dogs are as rabid as you, I see I need not concern myself with purging the lot of you. You’ll all tear each other apart soon enough.”

Before Gladio can do anything rash, Cassandra steps forward, one arm in front of the shield to keep him back. “Lord Lucius?” she asks, her own anger giving way to confusion.

The Lord Seeker looks down at her, pity intermingled with the arrogance. “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet...you should be ashamed.” He waits for the stinging pain of his words to settle, for Cassandra’s face to twist as if a dagger had just settled into her throat, before looking over her at the rest of the crowd. “You should all be ashamed. The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages.”

The crowd gasps again, this time in fear and disbelief. Some civilians cling to each other, while others make sure their masks give away nothing on their faces. The fallen chanter tries to raise her head, blood still trickling down her pale face. Noctis can’t see where Solas and Varric are in the crowd, but beside him, Prompto is poised to bolt while Ignis remains stoic still save for his fingers trailing along the hilts of his daggers. Ahead of them, Gladio seems torn between snapping Cassandra out of her shock and stepping past her to sock the Lord Seeker in the face.

Lord Lucius almost seems to revel in the cruelty he’s inflicting as he continues, “You are the ones who have failed. You, who would leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear.” And now, his gaze settled on Noctis. Though he speaks with controlled arrogance, there is something...wrong about those eyes. Something dark and grasping, as if it wants to crawl under Noct’s skin to tear him apart from the inside. The mark on his hand feels hot and sharp.

“If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny that demands respect here is mine—not yours, Prince of false prophets.”

“At least I don’t turn my back on the people depending on me.” Noctis stands his ground, but he does unclench his fists, letting the mark shine in the Lord Seeker’s direction. Those cruel eyes narrow at the sight, green light seeming to consume the darkness within. “I don’t care who or what you are—I just see a guy avoiding the real problems so he can fight his own war.”

“Then you truly do know nothing of this world. This is the only war worth fighting—the righteous standing against the corrupt and profane!” The Lord Seeker gestures for his fellow templars to return; they obey without emotion, falling into formation behind their lord. Only a handful, like the dark-skinned man still watching the fallen chanter, bear anything akin to remorse in their faces. “You have shown me nothing. And the Inquisition, less than nothing. Templars, Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march!”

Without another word, the templars begin to file out of the city, Lord Seeker Lucius leading his pack. The sun shining down on their metal armor is nearly blinding. The Inquisition soldiers step out of the forces’ way with uncertainty, looking to Cassandra and Noctis to see if they should engage or let the city’s main defense leave. Cassandra shakes her head. The soldiers stand down. Already, the citizens left behind whisper to each other in worried tones. A chanter in the distance begins to quote the Chant of Light, a passage about Andraste being betrayed by those she once held dear.

“Charming fellow, isn’t he?” Varric asks as he rejoined the group. His forced smile can’t hide the worry in his eyes.

“Did he really just do that?” Prompto clings to his camera like a lifeline. “These people aren’t completely defenseless now, are they?”

“From what I’ve read, Val Royeaux retains a small standing force for the city—but most of the army itself is off at war,” Ignis explains, looking to the others for approval.

Cassandra nods. “That is correct. Yet this change in the Lord Seeker is...distressing.” She fiddles with the fastenings on her gloves, as if reflecting on the similarities between her armor and the templars’. “Lucius has only been Lord Seeker for two years, following the death of Lord Seeker Lambert. But he was a just and humble man, never one for grandstanding or grasps at power...”

“Funny, how all that can change,” Gladio grumbles, clear that he thinks it’s anything but. “If he’s really gonna’ turn his back on the people here, he’s the real coward. All of ‘em are.” He forces himself to unclench his fists as he says to Cassandra, “I know you wanted to ask the templars for help, but that door’s just slammed in our faces.”

“There must be those who disagree with Lord Lucius,” Cassandra counters, only for Solas to finally reunite with the party and rest a hand on her shoulder. She lets her words trail off and takes a deep breath. “You think we should reason with the mages.”

“I will not try to argue that it is a perfect answer. The circle has done more harm to them than it has the templars. But unlike the templars, they have no allies to abandon in the first place. They will be amenable to any who will work with them without trying to control them.” His words are meant to assuage Cassandra, but he looks at Noctis while he speaks. “I suggest you consider it, before chasing templars clearly intent on burning their bridges.”

Noctis realizes that his allies aren’t the only ones watching him; now that the templars are out of sight, the civilians who haven’t given into despair are watching the “false prophet” who dared talk back to the Lord Seeker. It’s hard to read them through their masks. He hides his marked hand in a pocket.

“We should at least talk to them, then,” Noctis says, reminding himself to watch his words since mages aren’t trusted in these lands. But he trusts Prompto in this world and the next, and Solas has shown him no reason to doubt either. He’ll do all he can to stand by their sides, and can only hope the other mages will be as agreeable.

The crowd murmurs amongst itself. The stench of their perfume trails around the square like a tightening noose. The fallen priestess is still trying to get to her feet, blood starting to dry on a face twisted by confusion and betrayal. Without a word, Noctis breaks away from the crowd and strides over to the platform, grabbing a potion from his pocket with his un-marked hand and offering it to the chanter.

Her eyes, darker brown than the dried blood and almost black when contrasting her pale skin, bore into his. There’s judgment in her gaze, and wariness too. Her hand darts out to take the potion, and she tosses it back without a word. Her wound is hidden by her hood, but color returns to her cheeks as she regains the strength to stand.

“Do not take my weakness as a reason to pity,” the chanter hisses, tossing the empty vial aside. It shatters against the stone of the streets. “If you dare lead our people astray with your heresies, you are no better than he.”

Noctis tries to find the authority in his voice, but all he can muster toward this woman is to mutter, “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

“Does the Lord Seeker think of himself as doing the wrong thing?” The chanter fixes her too-tall headdress, preparing to finally leave her platform before looking down at Noctis one last time. “Do you really think of yourself as the Herald of Andraste?”

“I’m not the herald of anything. I just want to fix the Breach and go home.” But even as he speaks, a feeling of wrongness tugs at the back of his thoughts. There’s a reason he’s here, something he needs to stay for. Is there more than the Breach for him to fight? He hopes it’s just paranoia trying to drag him down.

The chanter sighs as she turns away. “Then I pray that Andraste does send someone to save us, and soon. Dancing on the edge of a knife is no way to live.” She leaves without another word, broken glass in her wake.

A hand claps Noctis on the shoulder. “Chin up,” Gladio says. “You’re doing all you can.”

“Yeah,” Noctis agrees with a sigh, “We are, aren’t we?” He looks up at his shield; he knows that his friend wants to leave this world and go back home more than any of them. Honestly, the prince can’t blame him. Noctis has no idea how one group can possibly pull this broken world back together.

Silence. Then one of the many onlookers, a woman in a flouncy bonnet and a mask that covers her whole face, inches toward them as if brought on by a reluctant breeze. “Is it true?” she asks. “Are you really going to close the Breach and save us?”

Noctis hesitates until he feels a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, his advisor and his best friend break through the crowd to join him.

“Of course we are,” the prince finally answers, his friends at his side. He takes a breath and raises his voice. “We’re going to need all the help we can get, but we’re going to close the Breach. With or without the templars. Now, who’s with me?”

It feels like all of Val Royeaux cheers in response.

* * *

At least an hour passes before Noctis is able to break away from the crowd. What began as concerned citizens asking if the Inquisition can really stop the Breach morphs as Cassandra tries to details the tenants of the Inquisition and the vision Divine Justinia had for it, and Varric gets roped into detailing their heroics thus far with a fair amount of exaggeration (Noct almost wishes he’d actually carved the Pride demon in half by digging his blade from its head down its spine once that addition to the story is voiced). For his part, Noctis does his best to answer questions about his home, the “Silver City,” without making any claims about connections to the Maker and Andraste. He’s able to fumble through it for a time, but once the complicated questions about lore and such arise, he searches the crowd for Ignis. The loyal advisor quickly steps in and describes his research into both worlds thus far, infinitely more articulate than Noctis could ever hope to be.

As Ignis wraps the crowd up in complicated answers that neither confirm nor deny any connections to the Maker, Noctis notices his remaining allies waving him over from a nearby alleyway, joined by a figure in prim, expensive robes. Now that he’s no longer the center of attention, Noctis slips away from the crowd and hurries over to join Gladio, Prompto, and Solas.

Prompto looks up from his camera, which he was showing to their robed visitor. “Bout time you made it out! That looked worse than the presentations we had to do in school, huh?”

“Tell me about it.” Noctis glances as the robed figure. “And you are?”

“A messenger. Forgive me my distraction.” He pulls away from Prompto’s camera and bows. “I am here to inform you that Madame Vivienne de Fer, First Enchanter of Montisimmard and Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais, is having a soiree tonight at the estate of Duke Bastien de Ghislain. Your words today and your actions in Ferelden have garnered her attention, and she requests your attendance.”

“She is not a leader in the conflict between Mages and Templars,” Solas explains, a sour note in his voice. “As a matter of fact, she looks down on the mages who defected, clinging to the supposed importance of the Circles. However, she is perhaps the most important mage in this land, in terms of political clout if nothing else.”

“So...could be troublesome, but sounds like refusing would be even worse.” Gladio smirks and says to Noctis, “And I bet you thought you could avoid court politics here, huh?”

Noctis answers with a sigh that indicates he’d rather be smack-dab in the middle of the Mage-Templar conflict than be stuck in politics. Then again, if this Vivienne ends up joining the Inquisition, perhaps she could help with all that—besides, having another mage on their side could help Prompto with learning his newfound magic. Noctis finally answers the robed messenger and says, “Count me in, then. Er, do I have to dress up?”

“I suggest you be clean of bloodstains, but otherwise, your current attire should suffice. I believe the attendants shall be...curious to see what the Silver City calls fashionable.” From under the messanger’s own mask, a faint smile emerges. Noctis can already imagine the heart attack Ignis is going to have over the prince’s outfit, seeing how all his fancier clothes were left back in the hotel at Galdin Quay, and Astrals forbid Noctis attend a soiree in cargo shorts and a t-shirt.

Noctis feels relieved for approximately two seconds. Then an arrow whizzes past his ear. He barely has time to ask what happened as it crashes into the stone street just behind him, a red piece of cloth attached to the arrow fluttering in the breeze.

The others are already reaching for their weapons and looking for an assailant, but the robed messenger is completely unfazed. “It seems Madame de Fer isn’t the only one intrigued by your arrival. I pray the message attached isn’t too obscene.”

“So this ain’t from an enemy?” Gladio asks as he plucks the arrow out of the ground. It’s small in his hand, and the cloth unfurls to reveal a message. Gladio reads it in confusion before reading aloud, “People say you’re special. I want to help, and I can bring everyone. There’s a baddie in Val Royeaux, I hear he wants to hurt you. Have a search for the red things in the market, the docks, and ‘round the cafe, and maybe you’ll meet him first...what is this, a treasure hunt?”

Prompto stands on tip-toe to read the rest of the message. “Least there’s a map, sort of! Also says to bring swords. From the friends of Red Jenny?”

“I have heard of the Red Jenny and her friends,” Solas explains, snatching the message and giving it his own once-over. “They have remarkable reach—from what I can tell, they began in Ferelden well over a century go, and now have “friends” in every major city.”

Prompto asks, “Can she really bring everyone?”

“There are those who reach high, and those who search low. Vivienne is one who can reach higher than we can. But the friends of Red Jenny, they collect those who others overlook, and leave all the highborn to fall from their lofty towers, so to speak. Or perhaps literally, according to one instance in Antiva...”

“Meaning between the two of them, we really could reach just about everyone,” Noctis interjects before the elf can get too distracted in his lost histories. The messenger, though perhaps nervous at the idea of actually dealing with Red Jenny and her cohorts, seems to agree with the statement. “May as well get everyone in on this, then. Go on and tell Vivienne I’ll show up at her party. We need to get the others together and find the rest of these...red things.”

The robed messenger, pleased that he can avoid joining the scavenger hunt, thanks Noctis and quickly takes his leave. The others fall into step with Noctis as he leads them back into the fray, certain they’ll have to face another barrage of questions before they can fully escape. “We’ve gotten ourselves in deep, now haven’t we?” Gladio asks, more to himself than the others.

Prompto pulls his camera out again to photograph the crowd ahead. “We kinda’ have. But these people really need hope right now, and now they’ve got us! That’s better than nothing, right?”

“Arguably,” Solas answers quietly. “But if that hope is tied to you, what happens when you finally find your way home?”

There is no time to answer as they reach the bloodied wooden platform and rejoin the others in front of the crowd. The question rests on their minds the rest of the afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, time to recruit some new party members!  
> ...I really don't have exciting notes for this chapter, other than that Episode Prompto is a week away and I'm not ready. D:


	8. White Noise

Noctis does not escape the grasp of the crowd until the sun begins to set, the citizens departing for their dinners, theater, and other social obligations Noctis is happy to avoid. Vivienne’s fete is not until later in the evening, so there is time for him to regroup with the others and decide upon a plan of action. It’s clear to everyone that siding with the templars is no longer an option—even Cassandra has to admit futility in that regard. None of them are sure how to get in touch with the leaders of the mages (Solas claims that he holds no sway over mages other than himself) but there is a good chance that Vivienne will have some advice on such a matter.

Then Noctis shows everyone the Red Jenny note. Cassandra has a look of disgust that indicates she wants to tear up the note and stab the pieces, which only seems to make Varric laugh. “The Red Jennys, kid? Really? That’s...going to be quite a spectacle if it works out. Or if it doesn’t, if we want to be honest with ourselves here.”

“Hey, they offered help, and we need all the help we can get,” Noctis explains. He forgets that he’s holding the note with his marked hand until it briefly flashes, green light creeping through the patches in the red fabric. He winces. “Sooner we get this done, the better. Now, if I’ve got to go meet Vivienne, I’ll need you guys to get the pieces and see what Red Jenny wants.”

“Why do I get the feeling you just don’t want to wander around the city?” Gladio mused aloud.

Noctis thrust the note into his shield’s hands. “It’s called multitasking, okay? Unless one of you wants to stand around a ballroom with me.”

No one volunteers to do so, and in fact most everyone is immediately absorbed in looking over the map to figure out where the hints might be (with Prompto taking record of it with his camera). The only one who doesn’t do so is Ignis, if only because he’s noticed moments ago that one of the nearby storefronts seems to have coffee, and has gone to investigate.

Noctis internally sighs, but he’s been forced into plenty of other social niceties before. After a brief agreement on a meeting place when everyone’s missions are done, Noctis makes his way out of the city, a handful of Inquisition guards following him just in case.

He’s just passing the city limits when a woman falls into step beside him. She’s almost the same height as him, her black hair pulled into a bun that reveals her pointed ears, green eyes level with his. Judging from her deep blue robes and the ornate staff on her back, it’s clear she’s a mage, but doesn’t seem to bear any ill intent.

“Herald of Andraste, Noctis Lucis Caelum?” she asks. He nods, making it clear that she’s got the advantage here. “If I might have a moment of your time.”

“Of course. And you are….?”

“Fiona. Formerly Grand Enchanter Fiona, leader of the Mage Rebellion.” She does not smile. Behind them, the guards murmur amongst themselves, confirming her identity with their whispers. “I heard tell of your visit to Val Royeaux, and wanted to see it with my own eyes. If it is help with the Breach you seek, perhaps my people are the better option.”

“Long as you aren’t punching old ladies, I bet you are.” Wait, not diplomatic, crap. He hadn’t geared himself up for that yet. “Sorry, it’s been…what I mean is, we were meaning to talk to you as soon as we could. Couldn’t find anyone in the Hinterlands to ask, and….”

“And we did not wish to be found. But now, we have seen the Inquisition for what it is—and the Chantry for what it is.” Fiona keeps her head held high, the soldier’s stares not even reaching her. There’s an almost regal bearing to her cold, confident countenance. “Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe, Inquisitor. It is not far from your base in the Hinterlands, and I shall order my mages not to engage you in combat; an alliance would be more beneficial to us both.”

“You sure they won’t attack us anyway? We’ve…faced quite a few of them already.” He remembers that first fight, the mage he spared even though he’d crippled her legs. She was one of the lucky ones.

“Let us say they have more pressing matters on their mind now, and leave it at that. I hope to see you soon, Inquisitor.” She strides away as swiftly as she appeared; Noctis blinks, and she’s out of sight. Almost like an illusion. Something doesn’t sit right with him, but it’s hard to tell if it’s from Fiona or all the other chaos of the day.

He’ll ask Cassandra and the others later. For now, there’s a fete to survive.

* * *

For once, Prompto finds himself wandering not with his friends or his new teacher, but with Varric. The dwarf claimed it was mostly because he’d heard about a ridiculous shop up on the market balconies where one of the clues supposedly was hidden, and Prompto seemed the one most likely to get a kick out of it if it were true. Which was how they found themselves above the city during what Prompto called the golden hour, when the setting sun hit a landscape just right.

Prompto leans over the railing so he can capture Val Royeaux in its glory. Dying light glints against gold, almost sweet enough to distract from the weathered paint and chipped stones. People mill about in the streets during these last hours of daylight, much like back in Insomnia but without the speeding cars and flashing advertisements to speed along the hours. Time seems to distill itself here, minutes creeping slow like they’re being painted into memory.

“Long as you have that camera, you’ve got those forever, right?” Varric asks, peering up to look at the camera.

“Long as I want to, yeah. Once I run out of space here, I could…” No, this was another world, and there aren’t just spare memory cards lying about. Maybe there are some small extras in the near-useless phones, but otherwise, all he’s got space for is two hundred pictures. And he thought budgeting space back home was hard—how was he supposed to figure out space for photos of a new world and the old one he might never see again?

(He catches himself wondering, does he want to see that old world again? There’s no Niflheim here. His mark means nothing. He’s the best friend to a hero and even if he’s magic, he’s someone special...no, he can’t think that. Noct wants to go home, so they’re going home. End of story.)

“If you run out of space, I’ll just write down a story about what you’ve got there. Painting’s worth a thousand words they say, and if there’s one thing I do, it’s...shooting things with Bianca. And sometimes writing things down.” Varric winks and waves a piece of red cloth, part of a new map inked into the fabric. “Found the map piece. Want to check out that store before we head back? If the rumors are true, all that’s in it is a single item. No one knows what it is, and it’s more expensive than Andraste’s left tit.”

Prompto laughs despite himself, and allows the dwarf to lead him over to this rumored store. It’s just as ridiculous as he claims, the owner with his near-unintelligible accent boasting how not even kings could buy his single ware. He’s so arrogant, Prompto wishes he had the money to buy whatever this item is, and then photograph the man’s reaction. Though that would be hard to do with the mask…

He’ll figure it out when the time comes. Seems they’ll be here awhile anyway.

* * *

The waves glimmer orange instead of blue, and the shadows of boats and fishing nets run long across the docks. It seems to Gladio that the sailors are the only ones to avoid the gaudiness of the city, even as the traders they transport strut past with stuffed chests that jingle as they walk. The sailors ignore all others as they haul their catches ashore, save for Cassandra as she passes. The insignia on her chest seems to burn with light from the setting sun.

“Are we close?” she asks, eyes trained ahead and ignoring the sailor’s stares.

He examines the map. “Should be. Least it’s not on a boat, by the looks of things.”

It’s an act, trying to investigate without arousing suspicion. The sailors start to give Gladio notice too; he’s taller than most humans around, likely thanks to better nutrition and more advanced healthcare back in Insomnia, and while his clothes aren’t as obviously foreign as his friends’, the giant sword strapped to his back clearly marks him as a danger. And Cassandra, she’s a Seeker, like the man who just forsook the entire city. Even the pickpockets lurking around the port keep their distance.

“We should make small talk,” Gladio suggests in a low voice. “Show ‘em we aren’t up to anything.”

“I don’t do small talk,” Cassandra states. Her gaze steels on what looks like a flash of red. The entire port stiffens as she stalks toward it. What she picks up is a small chapbook, which judging by the included artwork is a collection of bawdy poetry. She pretends to be disgusted even as a faint blush graces her cheeks.

“Then I’ll start. This any good?” Gladio reaches over and holds a page in place to read it. It’s a poem about an empress and an elven servant who…oh. Well. If that phrase has the same connotation as it does back in Insomnia, then it’s no wonder Cassandra’s blushing.

The Seeker shuts the chapbook shut and hides it under the Red Jenny’s note. “It has scandalous material against the empress, that’s what it is. I mean, it’s clearly satire, but…I should deliver this to Leliana. Just in case there’s a grain of truth to it.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Gladio looks up and sees another crimson glimpse at the edge of the dock. He waves for Cassandra to follow him. “What do you read otherwise, though? Josephine was gonna’ recommend a book to me before remembering that you had it, so I figured…”

“I don’t read drivel like this, if that’s what you’re asking.” Cassandra folds her arms tight against her armor and looks away for a long moment. “What book was she recommending?”

“Thedas: Myths and Legends, by Brother Genitivi. Said it’d be a good overview of different cultures and religious beliefs.”

Cassandra finally quirks a smile. “It is, and Genitivi has a way with words. Almost as much as…well, ah, did you know he helped find the Temple of Sacred Ashes, where the Breach is? He was there with Leliana and the Hero of Ferelden. Have you heard any stories of her yet, by the way? There’s a fascinating account by Sister Petrine, if you are interested.”

As Gladio had hoped, the small talk causes them to lose the sailors’ attentions, having more important things to worry about than why the Seeker and the stranger are discussing literature. Gladio and Cassandra don’t actually notice this, or realize how swept up they’ve become in their conversation until they almost forget to grab the Red Jenny note. His head is full of book recommendations he needs to write down as soon as possible.

(If only all the books he wanted to share weren’t in another world. He has to remind himself that they’ll be gone from this world soon anyway.)

* * *

Ignis has not just one, but two goals. The second is to find the Red Jenny instructions. The first, if only because he feels he’ll go mad without it, is to find the supposed store that Leliana claimed has coffee beans. He’ll still have to grind and brew them himself, no canned coffee in a world such as this, but still…the allure of caffeine is too strong to resist. He feels like he’s been slogging through fog since they came here.

(Yes, that’s just because of the lack of coffee. Not because of the death and suffering around them, of the sleepless nights trying to figure out how to save this world while wrestling with the fact that this isn’t home and he shouldn’t care but does.)

It takes time to find the beans, and purchasing them takes every last coin that Ignis has collected from the battlefield. But just the reward of finding them is enough to rejuvenate his spirits as he searches for the Red Jenny note. He has to stop and examine the area of course. For threats. And also for a glimpse at the food, seeing as this is a cafe. They seem awfully fond of wine here, and of course they’ve found suitable cheese to go with it…

“Do they serve meals like these, in your homeland?” Solas moves so quietly, his words almost catch Ignis off-guard. Almost, of course, being the key word here.

“In some places, yes. Often in high-class restaurants, or privately catered to nobles.” Ignis peers across the cafe at a dish that seems to involve a white-fleshed fish and served with...are those berries? It’s hard to tell from this distance. “Homemade meals, food that takes time, that is a luxury in my land. There’s no scarcity if you don’t mind eating meals out of a prepackaged box.” Or, in certain shield’s cases, out of a cup of dried noodles. Ignis can only hope that none of the cup noodles survived the trip through the Breach.

Solas nods, though it is clear he’s not as distracted by the culinary differences between their worlds. “You said much the same about magic. That only those close to the monarchy are able to utilize it.”

“Also correct. The Caelum line has been blessed by the Astrals, so they have access to a sliver of their power, and can choose to share it if they wish. For example, our King Regis uses most of his own magic in order to protect Insomnia, but has a force known as the Kingsglaive that fights in his stead. Noctis has only shared his power with the three of us, and is also the only one of us able to handle the elemental energies required to create magic.”

“I see. And has it always been this way?”

“Of course. Without the Astrals…” Ignis catches himself, finally realizing that there might be eyes on him. He did just explain his entire world through Maker-tinted lenses to the civilians; it wouldn’t do to be caught contradicting himself. He pretends to examine some of the Orlesian silverware as he drops his voice. “Only the Astrals choose who has their power, and it’s a blessing scarcely granted. I mean, can you imagine what the world would be like if everyone had access to magic?”

Is Solas sighing, or is that just the breeze? “I can.”

“Really now? May I ask what that’d be…” Wait, Solas isn’t even there anymore. He was just here, right? Or do all these Orlesians think that Ignis was discussing otherworldly magics with a spoon?

He sets the silverware down and reminds himself of the task at hand. He finds the red note and its color reminds him of paprika flakes; is a new recipe at hand? He departs the restaurant to regroup with the others, but even as he tries to think on food, it feels like his mind is being pulled far away.

* * *

King Regis used to joke that the capital was called Insomnia because the lights were so bright, the city itself could never sleep. The parties were much the same, fake golden flames dangling from chandeliers and bodies melting under their finery from the glare of spotlights. Noctis never gave much thought about it until he stepped into Madame de Fer’s fete, and the other partygoers were little more than silhouettes on the dancefloor when lit only by torches. Technically, the candles provide plenty of light—but those all-revealing electric lights are another matter entirely. Here, even if every face dropped their mask, the shadows would still consume too many intentions.

Or maybe, Noctis thinks to himself as his arrival is announced, he’s just reaching for excuses. He just really hates parties.

“We need all the help we can get,” he repeats in his head as he makes introductions, guarded but smiling. If only he had a mask of his own—maybe he could get one crafted, designed like those Kingsglaive masks he’s always admired. It’d be a far cry from the porcelain faces around him, but then again, so’s the rest of him. He receives a few comments about how black his outfit is, each critic’s outfit more garish than the last.

“The Inquisition? What a load of pig shit. Washed up Sisters and crazed Seekers—and this boy who claims to be from the Maker’s city? No one can take them seriously.”

Noctis doesn’t even catch a name as a figure emerges from the sea of masks (all these masks look the same, how can he tell anyone apart?) Accusations fly, masked in witty repartee. Noctis dodges the verbal blows the best he can. Much as he tried to avoid such lessons as a child, memories of social faux-pas cling like scars to any child who grew up under the glow of nobility, even the prince.

The room drops a few degrees. The inciter freezes, literally, ice covering his expensive clothes and pale skin. He cannot blink, and the tears from his too-dry eyes chill to a halt before they can even flow. Noct flinches and reaches for his hilt, but no attacks come. Did the Glacian herself somehow reach across worlds to save him from a few sharp words?

No, but the woman in white who glides down the stairs carries herself like a goddess, and right now that’s close enough. Her silver, horned mask glows under the torchlight. “My dear marquis, how unkind of you to use such language in my house…to my guests. You know such rudeness is… intolerable.”

The man is barely able to move his lips to speak. “Madame Vivienne. I humbly beg your pardon.” Even though that’s who Noctis came here to meet, he’s still surprised to find that this noble woman is his contact. She seems like she’d be more at home in Insomnia than here.

“You should. Whatever am I going to do with you, my dear?” Vivienne turns to Noctis, her tone neutral but appraising. “My lord, you’re the wounded party in this unfortunate affair. What would you have me do to this foolish, foolish man?” Her tone is light, but her words are not. Her eyes are piercing even from behind her mask.

The man’s social grave has already been dug, at least for the night; Noct’s seen enough at the castle to know that. “Go on and let him go. I’m sure he won’t lose his cool again.”

Though the shadows run deep against her dark skin, Vivienne’s lips curl despite herself. She snaps her fingers, and the ice falls away. Her victim falls to his knees, clutching himself for any remaining trace of warmth. “You are lucky that our guest is so kind, marquis. Run along now, before I change my mind.” She waits for the marquis to flee their presence, the idle chatter returning to the dance floor, before she turns to Noctis again. “I’m delighted you could attend this little gathering. I’ve so wanted to meet you.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to meet you too.” He’s not used to bowing for others, but he’s not really a prince in this world, so he tries to remember which one’s appropriate in this case—he’s sure she’s some sort of noble, though what exactly she is remains a mystery. He stiffly manages a half-bow, one hand over his heart. The Madame softly chuckles. 

After being caught by other party-goers for a bit of smalltalk, the prince and the madame break away from the dance floor, disappearing into one of the building’s many hallways. Most of the lighting comes from the open windows, revealing a moonlit garden just outside.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montisimmard and Enchantress to the Imperial Court.”

Impressive, even if Noctis doesn’t know what the difference between a First Enchanter and an Enchantress is. “I’m Noctis. Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, son of Regis Lucis Caelum, the 113th king of Lucis.” It’s so routine to recite, he doesn’t even realize he’s done it until he catches the hint of a curious look from under Vivienne’s mask. “Lucis is, ah, a country in another world. Where I’m from. It’s what everyone’s calling the Silver City.”

“Is that what you call it?” Vivienne asks. Her tone is back to being unreadable.

“I just call it Insomnia. Though it’s pretty silver, I guess.” He almost wishes Prompto were here with his photos—though his friend probably wouldn’t be able to escape the dancefloor once the other nobles got wind of his camera.

“I wondered if those rumors were true. You’re not an easy man to learn about, my dear. But I didn’t invite you to the chateau for pleasantries.” She steels herself again as she looks out the window, the moonlight glinting off her silver. “With Divine Justinia dead, the Chantry is in shambles. Only the Inquisition might restore sanity and order to our frightened people. As the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas, I feel it only right that I lend my assistance to your cause.”

When asked, her pedigree is impressive—she knows everyone in the Orlesian court, has all the remaining resources of the Circle (which is the school and home for most mages, as far as Noctis has learned), and of course is a powerful enough mage to freeze a man in his tracks with scarcely a thought—and of course to let him go safely afterwards. They couldn’t ask for a better ally, but one thing he’s learned from this world that itches at the back of his mind.

“It’d be great to have you along,” Noctis says, “and I already have something to ask you about. But I’ve got a favor to ask of you before I agree. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“You only have to ask,” Vivienne responds in her cool tone.

“When we came into this world, my friend—one of them, at least—discovered he had magic. And that it’s dangerous in this world. We’ve only got one other mage on our side right now, and while he’s super smart, he’s just one guy, you know?” Noctis pauses, trying to shove away his worries so he can sound vaguely professional. He could imagine Ignis lecturing him about elocution, were his advisor here. “What I’m trying to say is, if you join us, could you keep an eye out for him? Maybe give him some advice? I know he should go to a Circle, but I need his talents here.” 

Translation: he can’t imagine sending Prompto away to some unknown place without the rest of them. And what if they found a way home, and Prompto wasn’t with them? He couldn’t live with himself if they accidentally left him behind. Besides, that camera was the one piece of evidence they had in this world to prove they weren’t crazy, that they really were from another world. They needed Prompto, magic or no.

“An apostate from another world? Now isn’t that intriguing…” She considers for a long moment. “It has been some time since I last took a student. And it would help restore faith in the Circle if the Inquisition can use its methods to help train one of their own, so it benefits us all. I accept your conditions, Prince Noctis.” She offers her hand, deep brown like fresh earth after the rain. “Come now; we shouldn’t give our guests too much time to spin rumors.”

Mission complete, Noctis thinks to himself as he takes her hand and returns to the dancefloor. Now he just needs to figure out how to ask her about Grand Enchanter Fiona…

* * *

The others finally reunite and match up their map pieces, revealing a location for late at night. They still haven’t heard from Noctis by the time they journey through the back streets of Val Royeaux, but they were warned the fete would continue well into the night. Hopefully, Noct can hold his own until then.

“Are we sure this is the right place?” Gladio asks. He can find his way in the wilderness easily, but in this old city where all the alleyways look the same, it’s hard to figure out landmarks.

Prompto turns up the brightness on his camera, which has a picture of the completed map on it; the photo’s temporary, just so they don’t need to carry a torch with them to see the map. “According to this, we should be right—” He’s interrupted as a large fireball flies past his face. Well, Gladio thinks as he reaches for his hilt, they were warned to bring swords.

One of the town’s many masked strangers strides into the open area in front of them, launching another fireball. Either he means them to be theatrical warning shots, or he’s an abysmal aim. “The sniveling sidekicks of the Herald of Andraste! I had hoped he would be bold enough to face me on his own, but no matter. I did not expect to be discovered—the resources spent to find me must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably!”

“We have no idea who you are!” Varric calls back. Gladio’s relieved that somebody knows that they don’t know, because all these masks seriously look the same. 

“You can’t fool me! I’m too important for this to be an accident! But no matter—my efforts will survive in victories against you elsewhere!”

The man seems prepared for a long-winded ramble that could put Solas to shame, only to be cut off by the sound of an arrow striking its mark, shortly followed by a body falling to the ground with a thump. Before anyone can even draw their weapons, a new figure has entered the scene; an elven woman, probably about Prompto’s height and just as blonde while dressed in garish reds and golds, pulls taut the string of her bow. The body of a guard lies at her feet, blood just beginning to pool.

“Just say what,” the archer orders.

“What is the—guh!” An arrow enters the man’s mouth and pierces through the back of his head, tongue almost comically split in two. He doesn’t even have enough breath to gurgle the rest of his sentence as he falls backwards onto the ground.

The archer makes a noise of disgust as she stridess over to the body. She’s already strapped her bow into place on her back, even as the rest of them clutch the hilts of their weapons. “Squishy one, but you heard me, right? Just say what; rich tits always try for more than they deserve.” She reaches down and plucks her arrow out of his mouth, giving it a shake to dislodge the bits of meat still attached. “Blah blah blah! Obey me, arrow in my face.”

“That shot was rather impressive,” Ignis admits, somehow not showing his surprise on his face in an effort to remain tactful. “Are you the one who sent us the map?”

“Yeah, you followed it well enough.” She looks over the lot of them and crinkles her nose. “None of you look super herald-y, you know. I heard you glowed.”

“Noctis is….otherwise occupied at the moment, though he wishes he could be here. We came in his stead.”

The archer doesn’t seem impressed. She starts twirling the arrow around between her fingers. “But you’re all just people. I’m not here for people—I’m here for glowing things. He’s the one with people lookin’ up to him, you know? That’s the one I need to talk to, the big light that all my people want to follow around for a little bit.”

“Who exactly are your people? Elves?” Gladio asks. It’s hard not to sound biting, but this archer seems rather relaxed, so he tries to follow her casual attitude. If there was one thing he knew about talking to women, it was that they didn’t like guys who were too wound up and loud.

The archer gives him a once-over, gaze settling on his tattoo a moment before apparently deciding that while he didn’t glow, he might be entertaining to talk to. She bursts into a grin as she gestures to a nearby stack of crates and says, “No, I mean people people. The name’s Sera. This is cover, get ‘round it. For the reinforcements! Don’t worry, someone tipped me their equipment shed. They’ve got no breaches!” Her impish grin is familiar, somehow.

True to her word, footfalls echo down one of the many alleyways. Everyone takes their places, Gladio raising his shield high and brandishing his sword while the others take place behind cover. The only one standing beside him is Cassandra, her own shield and sword at ready, while Sera has decided to stand on top of the boxes meant for cover, bow drawn back and a wide grin on her face. This erupts into laughter as the guards approach; true enough, while they’re brandishing their swords and daggers, their pants are nowhere to be seen.

“Why didn’t you take their weapons?” Gladio calls over the din of fighting as he swings his greatsword with one hand. The guards fall almost comically, as if the lack of pants has lowered their will to fight.

“Because no breaches!” Sera gasps between laughter. Out of the corner of his eye, Gladio sees Prompto poking his head past the boxes and snapping a photo of the pantsless brigade. The shield allows himself a chuckle; he supposes it is kind of funny. The fight still goes ridiculously swiftly, to the point that he almost doesn’t feel bad when he sees the bare-legged corpses littering the ground. Almost. (Did they really have to throw their lives away over pants?)

Sera walks away from the carnage as if nothing happened, sauntering in looping circles around the companions as she appraises their bloody, bemused visages. “So, friends of the Herald. You’re all pretty strange, aren’t you? Long as your herald isn’t a tit, I’d like to join.”

“Noctis is a born-and-raised dude, so he doesn’t really…” Prompto trails off a moment. “Wait, you mean that as an insult, not a….got it. No, Noct’s pretty cool. I think he’ll laugh when I show him the pictures later. You’ll tell us how you stole them, right?”

“No one said anything about her joining us,” Cassandra interrupts. Poor gal; she already looked like she could use a good book and a glass of wine earlier in the day, after the whole templar incident. Now? Looks like she could use a whole bottle. “All we know about her is that we followed her map straight into an ambush.”

Sera shakes her head, immediately looking distressed. “It wasn’t—you knocked, he crapped, right? Look, it’s like this. I sent you a note to look for hidden stuff by my friends? The friends of Red Jenny. That’s me! Well, I’m one.” She trails off as she lists a few other names and locations. Gladio glances back at Solas, who nods in agreement with her information. She continues, more excited this time, “It’s just a name, yeah? It lets little people—friends—be part of something while they stick it to nobles they hate. So here, in your face; I’m Sera. The friends of Red Jenny is all about that. I used them to help you! Plus arrows.”

The others try to suss out what this means aloud—does she mean spies, a secret order of warriors, servant elves, something else? But when Gladio mulls over the idea, it sounds like something out of a storybook he read as a kid. “I think I get it. Iggy, Prompto, did either of you read ‘The Thief and the Dagger’ when you were kids?”

Prompto mutters something about having seen the movie, but Ignis is well-read enough to catch on. “Ah yes; this is similar to the crew of the Tantalus, isn’t it? An acting troupe who performed shows for royalty and commonfolk alike, but uses it as a distraction to perform rebellious deeds such as kidnapping the princess.”

“And they couldn’t do their deeds without the help of the little guys, remember? I mean, Vivi ends up helping cause a whole distraction that lets the group escape.” Okay, so in actual story Vivi was a powerful wizard-child who didn’t mean to join a rebellious theater group, but the analogy as-is makes sense for the others. “What she means is that she brings regular folk into help. Maybe they can’t stop a noble, but they can cause a distraction and make it seem like coincidence. Or just leave a key out for someone who could use it.”

Now Sera’s excited, and she beams up at Gladio. “Exactly! Servant doesn’t like prissy-pants, leaves out a key and a hint. I get the hint, nab the key, and then nab breaches. See?”

“Sounds pretty useful to me!” Prompto agrees. “So like, does this make her Zidane, then? Whatever—I’d say we bring her to Noct and give her a chance! Wouldn’t hurt to get more people on our side, right?”

“And more breeches,” Sera adds, pulling out a large rucksack that is in fact full of pants. “You have merchants who’ll buy this shit, yeah? Got to be worth something.” She winks at him as they all prepare to leave, and while she doesn’t actually giggle, Gladio hears it in the back of his mind. He realizes why this almost seems familiar, and it feels like a punch through his chest.

Iris. 

Not the words or the logic, but something about that boundless joy reminds him inexplicably of his sister. Maybe it’s the large brown eyes. Or maybe it’s that if given the chance, he could see Iris being just mischievous enough to steal an opponent’s pants, but still be tactful and strong enough to come out on top. (Whatever’s going on back home, she better be alright. She has to be, but that won’t stop him from worrying.)

Gladio takes stock of their situation as they leave to reunite with Noctis. Are they any closer to escaping this world? They’ve picked up a new ally or two, the ire of the templars, and a sack full of pants. The Breach’s glow keeps the night from ever growing truly dark, yet the promise of home has never seemed so far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a super long chapter, to make up for the time it took to post!...Okay, it took that much time because I also had super exciting news in terms of my original writing, so I've been working on that. More news the closer we get to these exciting things!
> 
> (Fun fact: I named my cat after Vivienne. And her nickname is Vivi, because Final Fantasy IX is great and of *course*I decided that all the other Final Fantasy games are books in the Final Fantasy XV setting. That's another fun fact.)


	9. Who's Got the Fire?

Noctis stares up at the Breach from the roof of Haven’s Chantry. Reaches his marked hand up at the sky, as if he could grasp it and hold it closed. No such luck. Snow falls around him, nature continues as if the world weren’t threatened by a plague of demons. His hand flares in time with the Breach. He lets it fall back onto the roof and slowly makes a snow angel.

“Y’know, that warpy thing you did is cheating,” Sera informs him as she pulls herself up to join him. Even though she only met him as they left Val Royeaux, she seems oddly amused by the prince. (She even “gifted” him one of the pairs of breaches she’d apparently stolen from some guards—Noctis isn’t quite sure what to do with it, but amazingly enough, they seem to be his size.)

“Not cheating if we aren’t racing,” Noctis retorts. He doesn’t bother to get up, just keeps staring at the empty (except for the Breach, of course) sky.

Sera flops down next to him without any pretense of grace. She immediately makes a gagging noise. “Shite, that Breach is ugly. Should be everyone’s up in arms to get that out of the sky; looks worse than a saggy ballsack with the plague.”

Noctis answers with what is probably the most undignified snort of his life. No one’s ever been this frank with him, and honestly? Kind of refreshing. “Haven’t seen many of those, so I’ll take your word on it.”

“Well, here’s lookin’ at one.” She raises a fist to the sky, then whistles like an arrow being let loose as she reveals her middle finger.

There’s more shuffling behind them, and soon there’s Ignis standing in the wing of one of his snow angels. “I take it the meeting went well? Your advisers weren’t shaking their heads when they emerged, which is a good sign.”

“If you already talked to them, you should know how it went.”

“I want to hear it in your own words.”

Noctis sighs, then pats the ground next to him. Ignis crouches, only the soles of his newly-crafted boots touching the snow. “We agreed to go talk to Fiona over in Redcliffe, which is at the edge of the Hinterlands. Then Leliana started talking about some group called the Gray Wardens that went missing, except for some guy seen near Redcliffe, so she wants us to find him too. Plus another one in a place called the Storm Coast, though it sounds like the scouts are having a tough time looking.”

“I read about the Gray Wardens, yes. Apparently, this world occasionally has an uprising of corrupted beings known as darkspawn, and the Gray Wardens are the only force able to vanquish them.” Ignis looks over at Sera and asks, “One of those uprisings was about a decade back, correct? Did you encounter it at all?”

Sera shrugs, having already proven cagey about her past. “Came and went, far as Blights go. Buggers didn’t get far, so never saw a darkspawn, if that’s what you’re asking. Not stupid enough to go under and find ‘em myself.”

“Don’t have to go under to find darkspawn if you’re heading to the Storm Coast.” This is a new voice, one with heavy boots that crunch through the snow on the roof. Noctis finds himself staring up at an armored figure, tanned skin and cropped hair the color of a stained wine barrel. The armored figure smiles down at Noctis and says, “Planning on closing the Breach from right here?”

“That’s the plan. Just need someone to fling me up there, and I’m good to go.”

“If that’s all you need, I’ve got the guy for you.” The armored figure kneels in the snow and offers a hand to Noctis, pulling the prince into a sitting position when he takes it. “Cremisius Aclassi of the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company. Heard a bit about you and your Inquisition, caught the eye of the Iron Bull. Thought you might want to see us in action on the Storm Coast, see what we can do.”

“And hire you while we’re at it, I bet.” Noctis glances at Ignis and asks, “We have the money for it?”  
“The Inquisition itself seems to have some funds set aside, yes.” Ignis slips off his glasses in an attempt to make them stop fogging up. “Question is, why should we hire a mercenary company?”

“If you’ve got the Templars breathing down your neck, you’re going to lead more muscle. Bull’s Chargers are loyal, never leave a job unfinished, and we’ve got experience fighting templars. Mages too—we’re fighting a group of Tevinter slavers on the Storm Coast right now, should keep us busy a few more weeks.”

Noctis didn’t know how far the Storm Coast was, but he had his doubts they could find the missing warden in the Hinterlands, deal with Fiona in Redcliffe, and then make it to the Storm Coast before the Bull’s Chargers left. That is, unless they split up…

“We might be able to swing by for a visit. Specs, got a sec to chat?”

The Prince reluctantly gets to his feet and prepares to warp back to the ground, grabbing Ignis’ hand to pull him along. Right as he throws a dagger to follow, something cold strikes the back of his head. He lands and immediately stumbles from the shock. Sera’s laughter rings through the air as he turns around.

“Now that’s cheating!” Noctis calls after her. He opens one hand and waits for Ignis to hand him a snowball. His adviser sighs deeply before scooping up a handful of snow.

“It’s not cheating if the snowball fight never started!” Sera mocks before sticking her tongue out. A snowball collides with her face seconds later, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

* * *

Prompto tries not to make a face when he drinks his tea. Not because it tastes bad; during his “rebranding year” (that’s the kindest thing he can call it now), all he drank was tea and vegetable smoothies. The warm beverage settles almost uncomfortably in his stomach, even when he drinks it in slow sips.

“Is this tea at all like the kind you serve at home?” Josephine asks, kind smiles and polite poise as she fills Vivienne’s cup. The First Enchanter’s eyes haven’t left him since he’s entered the room, silently appraising him. He’s introduced himself, but has yet to figure out what else to say to her.

“It is, yeah. Nice and earthy. I used to drink the more fruity ones myself, but hey, that’s just me.”

“A man of expensive tastes I see,” Josephine teases, winking to show it’s a joke. Prompto feels his face flushing anyway. “That should do it—I must go check in with a visiting noble now, but feel free to help yourself to more tea. And if you could avoid spilling any on the paperwork…” After all, there aren’t a lot of private places for a noblewoman to meet with a potential student in this village; the table they’re sitting at is Josephine’s desk. Towers of paper and hastily-sorted quills keep the rest of the room at bay.

“My dear, you have nothing to worry about. Your work is safe with us.” Vivienne’s smile is as disarming as it is cool. Prompto’s never met a queen, seeing as Noct’s mother was long dead and the king never remarried, but he imagines one would act like Vivienne. Even Josephine’s in awe as she takes her clipboard and leaves the room. Vivienne takes a long sip of her tea. The silence in the room stretches.

“Have you been a mage long?” Prompto blurts out, unable to deal with all the other potentials silence could lead to.

“Since childhood, as is the case with most other mages. We are taken to the Circle as soon as our talents manifest; apostates who avoid this are either too cautious about using their powers, or too weak for there to be much to hide. And then, there’s you.” She gently sets down her teacup. The sound still seems to reverberate through the room. “Even if we forget for a moment where you’re from, you are an unusual case, my dear. From what our prince has told me, you grew up completely without magic, even in your world.”

“Only those who’re close with the royal family got to use that. Even then, only a few folks can do the fancy magic, like warping and stuff. All I can use is what Noct hands me in a flask—until coming here, that is.” He avoids the Enchantress’ gaze by staring deep into his own tea. “Unlike the others, I’m a boring ol’ pleb. No noble families here; I’m just the guy along for the ride.”

“Whatever you were, it no longer matters. You are a mage now, and with that comes responsibility. ‘Magic is meant to serve man, never to rule over him.’” She clears her throat, waiting for Prompto to meet her gaze. “I cannot promise that I can keep you safe. I cannot ward off temptation when you enter the Fade. What I can teach you is how to use your power without harming others, and how to avoid the lure of demons. I will teach you control; it will be up to you to use it, at all times.”

Sure, absolutely no pressure at all. “Of course. I mean, I really don’t have any other option, right? Keep calm and carry on, or get bodysnatched by a demon. Or die.”

“You could also become Tranquil, cutting you off from the Fade and eliminating your magic entirely. I doubt your prince would appreciate you losing your personality as well, but if the choice is between that and possession, there is only one acceptable option.” Vivienne takes another sip of her tea, nodding for Prompto to do the same. He reluctantly does so with shaking hands, barely able to swallow.

She continues, “This is the basis of magic—when you are confronted, refusing to give in. I see that you are scared, and I cannot blame you. Magic is a heavy burden to carry. Yet you have not run, and you have not hidden yourself to avoid scrutiny. Nor are you arrogant enough to believe you can survive this world without understanding it first—a lesson the mages fighting in the Hinterlands could stand to learn.” She doesn’t hide the spite in her voice, much like Solas when disappointed; the two mages have their similarities, even though Prompto can already tell that saying so would be a bad idea.

“So, you think I might have a shot at this?”

Vivienne studies him a long moment. Her voice softens, though it loses none of its confidence. “You no longer have the luxuries of ‘maybe,’ my dear. Either you succeed, or you will lose who you are.” She sets down her teacup and rises. “If you are willing to work toward success, toward surviving…that is the shot you must take.”

Prompto’s never been a master at anything. Never been raised with expectations and duties like his friends, the fate of the world hinging on his shoulders. But surviving? If there’s one thing he can do, it’s survive. It’s all he’s ever done.

“Say no more—I see it in your eyes. Then we shall begin your first real lesson shortly.”

* * *

Lightning crackles across the underbelly of clouds dark and heavy enough to almost block out the sight of the Breach, and Ignis decides he’s never found a place as aptly-named as the Storm Coast. Even obscured by the trees and rain, he can hear the angry ocean bashing against rocks and breaking driftwood apart. The downpour is thick enough that his glasses were too flooded to see through, and the world is oh-so-slightly blurry after pocketing them. The resulting headache later will be an annoyance, but for now, he only has to ignore the jests of his comrades.

“There’s a tree right ahead,” Gladio ‘helpfully’ points out, knowing full well that Ignis isn’t actually blind without his glasses but pretending anyway.

“I had guessed that Gladio, thank you.”

Sera adds, “There’s a nug over there too. Ever seen a nug before? Their tiny little hands are creepy. Like baby hands.”

Ignis resists the urge to roll his eyes like Noctis would. “Are you frightened by babies, Sera?”

“No, I’m damn annoyed by them. All they do is scream and shite, yeah? With tiny hands.” She spits at a random tree in disgust. The aforementioned nug hops away as if offended.

“If we’re done discussing the obvious, I can hear fighting ahead of us.” Cassandra strides ahead, tightly gripping her sword as if it could ward off her companions’ conversations. “We should make haste.”

“But not too much haste,” Solas says in total deadpan from just behind her. “There is another tree ahead, after all.” Ignis and Cassanda groan in sync.

Just past the trees lies the vast expanse of the ocean, churning dark gray as it crashes against the shore. A fight occurs in the tide’s path, magic flying through the air and countered by steel. Judging by how red the sand has turned, the battle’s gone on for some time now. Ignis spots Krem in the fray, slicing through the white robes of a masked figure. Nearby, a hulking gray man swings a giant axe, crackling with energy, through a slew of masked warriors as if he were swatting away flies. A pair of giant horns sprout from his head and stab at the sky; Ignis has read about qunari, but this must be Iron Bull, the first he’s seen in the flesh.

The adviser’s allies are already in position: Gladio and Cassandra with blades ready up front, Sera and Solas with arrows of metal and magic prepared in the back, and Ignis in the middle where he can adjust to wherever he’s needed with ease. His hands are on his throwing knives, but his lance is still within easy reach. The others wait for his signal to join the fray. Three, two…

The world goes white with another flash of lightning.

Their charge is followed by the booming thunder. Cassandra strikes first by beating a warrior’s blow aside with her shield, stabbing him through the gut moments later. The blade comes away slick and red as Gladio joins her, the force of his swing strong enough to launch a mage off his feet and into the waves. A group of masked fighters—slavers from Tevinter, Krem had said they were—find themselves trapped in a ring of fire, their attempted escape met with a volley of arrows piercing into their burning bodies.

Ignis quickly scans the battlefield for his place in the fray. There, a mage that’s faster than her comrades; she avoids the Iron Bull’s swing in the nick of time, and fires a blast of ice at the qunari’s feet in order to slow his assault. He breaks out with ease, but the mage is already preparing another spell to aid her escape.

She’s quickly stopped by the point of a dagger piercing through her mask, right between the eyes. Ignis tries not to dwell on the accuracy of his shot as the mage slumps over. Right before she hits the sand, Iron Bull plucks the dagger out of her mask and turns it over in his hand, large enough to make the dagger look comically small.

“Nice craftsmanship.” He passes the blade back to Ignis by throwing it into the shoulder of the masked mage closest to the adviser. His aim is true, and Ignis finishes the job by stabbing the mage in the neck and retrieving the blades from the corpse. He belatedly notices that the qunari wears an eyepatch; nailing such a toss without depth perception is no small feat.

The battle trickles to an end, and soon the ocean tries to reclaim the corpses in its waves. Iron Bull checks in with his Chargers first, assessing the wounds and ordering the “throatcutters” to finish their work on the corpses before they get to opening the casks. Once his crew is in order, he strides over to Ignis and Gladio, motioning for them to follow him. He speaks with a confident, casual rumble of a voice. “You’re with the Inquisition—Herald’s right-hand men, I hear. Glad you could make it. Come on, have a seat. Drinks are coming.”

Ignis doesn’t drink much in general, and surely not after a bloody battle, but he appreciates the offer. “Thank you. You are correct; I am Ignis Scienta, adviser to the Herald, and this is Gladiolus Amicitia, the Herald’s primary bodyguard.”

“And I’m going out on a limb and assuming you’re Iron Bull,” Gladio adds. He sounds impressed, though that may be because he actually has to look up at someone for once.

Iron Bull shrugs as he sits down on a nearby rock. “Yeah, the horns usually give it away. Either of you met a qunari yet?”

Ignis reluctantly shakes his head. “Not unless one counts books, no.” And unlike elves and dwarves, qunari never featured in Lucian fairytales. The closest in design are depictions of Ifrit—from what he’s read of the qunari’s rigid adherence to their faith in the Qun, comparison to the Fickle Infernian seems foolish to mention.

When Iron Bull shrugs, it’s like watching an earthquake rolling through mountains. “Books are fine and all, but they’re a poor substitute for experience. Which is why you’re going to need the Chargers; you won’t find a finer mercenary band in Ferelden or Orlais. We’re expensive, but we fight hard, and we never leave a job unfinished. Plus, you get me, so I’ll let you in on something. Might impress you, might piss you off. Your books ever mention the Ben-Hasserath?”

Gladio speaks up before Ignis can regretfully admit the gap in his knowledge. “Let’s just say we’ve had a lot of info to cram in our heads these past few weeks. Pardon if that one escapes us.”

“I’d be impressed if a single member of your Inquisition knew about the Ben-Hassereth. Simple terms, they’re the left hand of the Qun. Covers everyone from assassins to spymasters, figures out who’s a threat and who’s beneath their notice.” His single eye regards them, steel and stern. “Or should I say, beneath our notice.”

“You’re admitting yourself to be a spy?” Ignis asks with a mix of suspicion and genuine curiosity. Information on the Qun has been scarce, mostly because they seem experts at staying hidden save for sudden, brutal attacks. Plus, he’s never heard of a spy who runs around with a battleaxe as long as Noctis is tall.

“Why hide it? You seem a smart man—you’d figure it out soon enough. Might as well say it now, put us on equal footing.” Wait, did Iron Bull wink at him? It’s gone before Ignis can figure it out, and now the captain of the Chargers is pointing a finger (of a hand that seems to be missing a few digits) at the Breach overhead. “We Qunari want that gone just as much as you do. Want to know how to stop it, or if your Herald actually has a decent shot at doing so himself. So here’s the deal: I report back to the Ben-Hassereth about what you’re up to, nothing too personal or that could ruin the Inquisition. In exchange, I share anything useful in the reports sent to me. Notes on tactics, rumors, anything your spymaster can put together and make useful if she’s worth a damn.”

Ignis and Gladio exchange looks. Gladio nods toward the trees, and Ignis agrees. “I’m sure she’ll be able to. Give us a minute to discuss it?”

“Of course; after all, casks still aren't open yet. And who's fault is that, Krem?” Iron Bull gestures for the duo to step away and waves Krem over in one commanding gesture. As the adviser and shield step away, they hear Iron Bull and his right-hand man fall into an easy banter as they discuss whether the throatcutters have finished, which falls into jests about dubious parentage and using blood magic to open the casks. Ignis finds himself reminded of conversations similar in tone during their travels with Noctis.

They find a patch near the edge of the treeline that seems vaguely dry, affording them a view of the rocky beach and the marooned ships nearby. A group of the Chargers routinely check the bodies of the fallen, dragging daggers across throats to make sure none of them get back up. Sera follows close behind, snatching anything that looks valuable or shiny on the bodies. Cassandra seems to be questioning Solas about something as he wanders along the shoreline.

“Think we can trust him?” Gladio asks, his concerned rumble of a voice almost blending in with the thunder.

“It’s hard to tell. He seems earnest, but that could be part of his training. And we don’t know much about the Qunari; even Cassandra only had vague accounts, plus what she’d heard from Varric about an occupation in Kirkwall, which sounded like a unique case.” Ignis represses a sigh and fiddles with his gloves. His training included how to interrogate a spy once found, even some tactics on discreet infiltration—but never what to do when a spy admitted his presence and asked to join forces.

Gladio agrees with a grunt as he gathers the rest of his thoughts. “If nothing else, his mercs are well trained, and adaptable too. I don’t think any of them even got scratched by that fight. Could be useful just for the manpower alone.”

“Does you think Noctis needs an army?”

“I think our being here’s made us a lot of enemies already Iggy, and we might not be enough to protect him. Doesn’t matter what happens once we bounce; we just need to make sure Noct stays alive.”

Painful as the shield’s point is, it also strikes true; what matters most is keeping Noctis alive, regardless of what it takes. Besides, Bull’s Chargers do seem to be capable fighters. Wouldn’t it be better to make a good first impression on the Qunari by working with Iron Bull, and help Leliana gauge the flow of information either way?

Plans form. Rain falls. The tide creeps closer to the shore to reclaim the corpses, and axes strike open casks of alcohol. When they meet again, Iron Bull offers them tankards, “For an entertaining battle, if nothing else.” He respectfully waits for them to try their drinks (a bit strong for Ignis’ tastes, though he swallowe\s it down all the same) before asking about their decision.

“For now, we agree to your terms. We could use your forces, and any information you can offer us in stopping the Breach. However.” Ignis slides one of his daggers out of his sheath, twirling it in his free hand as a bolt of lightning flashes across the sky, its reflection glinting across the metal. “Any messages sent to or from you shall be examined with the utmost scrutiny. And should you bring any harm to Noctis—to the Herald of Andraste, or anyone else in the Inquisition—my blade shall be the first to your throat. Do I make myself clear?”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less. Though I admit, didn’t figure you for the flashy type.” The lightning strikes again, glinting off the blade, and Iron Bull definitely winks this time. Ignis finds himself unsure of how to process this fact. Iron Bull’s already turned away, he and his Chargers cheering over being hired.

“That…was a pun as bad as yours,” Gladio mutters in a semblance of awe.

“My puns are pinnacles of entertainment, and you know it.” Ignis attempts another sip from his tankard, but then there’s movement up in the trees. He readies his dagger as   
one of the Chargers (the elven “archer,” whose bow looks suspiciously like a mage’s staff) calls the others to attention. 

Everyone reaches for their weapons, only for a relatively small figure to break through the trees. Her bright red hair stands out in stark contrast to the washed-out colors of the storm coast, and she still has her own bow clutched tightly in her grasp.

“Harding? What happened?” Gladio’s already running over to the dwarven scout, who Noctis had sent ahead with a set of forces to scout the Storm Coast before meeting with Iron Bull.

“They haven’t reached you yet. Good.” She stumbles to a stop, then turns around and aims her bow at the woods behind her. Nothing stirs. “We’ve got brigands kidnapping our forces, and they’re after us next.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to have Blackwall's recruitment in this chapter as well, but this chapter's long and late enough as is, soooo...he'll show up in time.
> 
> We are soon approaching the fun things. Fun, evil little things.


	10. Take What You Want

“Remember how to carry your shields. You’re not hiding, you’re holding. Otherwise, it’s useless.”  


Prompto finds something familiar about Warden Blackwall as he instructs his charges, mere farmers who aren’t decked out in full padded armor and steel inscribed with winged heraldry like he is. It isn’t in the man’s face, even though his swept-back black hair and trimmed beard does resemble the paintings Prompto’s seen of King Regis during Noct’s childhood that decorates the castle halls back in Insomnia. No, it’s something in the way this Blackwall holds himself, the way the authority in his voice almost falls flat as he gives orders. Like he’s trying to prove something to himself by instructing these men on how to fight.  


Looks like they have a mutual friend in impostor syndrome, Prompto thinks to himself. He wonders if anyone else notices it.  
Gripping his staff tighter, he looks to the others, also hiding in preparations for the fight about to break. Noctis has climbed into the boughs of a tree and is ready to warp back down once combat starts. Varric watches from behind the corner of the shack that Blackwall and his men are defending, while Vivienne lurks at the edge of the woods with Prompto. Her eyes flash between him and her hold on her staff until he gets the hint and changes his grip.  


As he does, he catches a dark pair of eyes widening. Warden Blackwall has noticed them—but his surprise is cut short as he catches an arrow with his shield. “Conscripts, here they come!” They raise their shields as bandits rush toward them. Prompto aims his staff and calls lightning down from a cloudless sky.  


It’s a fast fight, and to his credit, Blackwall isn’t thrown off guard when Noctis warps in from seemingly nowhere to tackle an archer to the ground with his blade. Prompto doesn’t even feel the usual fog of mana use by the time it’s done; maybe he’s getting used to this life-or-death combat thing. Long as he doesn’t look at the bodies of the bandits, and instead reminds himself that all the farmers made it out alive.  


Blackwall looks like he’s thinking the same thing as he crouches over one of the bandit’s bodies, even if he’s sterner about it. “Sorry bastards,” he mutters as he gets to his feet, pulling authority back over his features like a favored cloak. He turns to his men once more and says, “Good work, conscripts. Even if this shouldn’t have happened. They could’ve….well, thieves are made, not born.” Is that regret in his eyes, or is Prompto just overly projecting on a hardened warrior he’s just met? “Take back what they stole. Go back to your families. You saved yourselves.”  


Everyone waits until the farmers have walked away. Varric approaches first, slowly clapping. “Something to be said about speeches that are simple and to-the-point like that. Warden Blackwall, I presume?”  


“Who wants to know, and how do you know my name?” Blackwall’s eyes narrow in suspicion as he looks over the four of them; they clearly aren’t farmers, or anyone else from Ferelden.  


Noctis steps forward, reluctantly revealing his marked hand. “We’re with the Inquisition. I’m Noctis, Herald of Andraste and all that. These are Prompto, Varric, and Vivienne.”  


“Madame de Fer, if you will.” Vivienne says, with the barest nod of acknowledgement. “We are here to investigate whether the disappearance of the Gray Wardens has anything to do with the murder of the Divine.”  


Prompto had only received a crash course in what exactly a Gray Warden was on their way to the Hinterlands, as Leliana had asked them to investigate Blackwall on their way to meeting with the leader of the mage rebellion. This world apparently had its own version of the Starscourge, carried by creatures called darkspawn who crawled out from underground every few centuries to try to take over the world. Gray Wardens were the only ones who could stop them, and even though they’d been around to stop one of these “Blights” ten years ago, they’d suddenly vanished recently…except for Blackwall. Leliana wanted to know why.  


(Varric had also mentioned, with a hushed voice and a devious smirk, that Leliana had been lovers with one of these wardens, only spoken of as “The Hero of Ferelden,” who had also helped save Cullen once upon a time. Did Leliana really believe the Wardens might’ve been responsible for the murder, or was she just trying to find her lost love? Not even Varric could say.)  


Blackwall paces around them as he speaks, features briefly flaring in disbelief. “Maker’s balls, the Wardens and the Divine? That can’t…no, you’re asking, so you really don’t know. First off, I didn’t know they disappeared. But we do that, right? No more Blight, job done. Wardens are the first things forgotten.”  


Vivienne hums a low note that sounds innocently interested, but even Prompto knows better. She doubts this claim more than Ignis being told that cup noodles constitute a well-balanced meal.  


Blackwall notices this, squaring up and looking her dead in the eye. “But one thing I’ll tell you: No Warden killed the Divine. Our purpose isn’t political.”  


“Darling, everything is political. For some, just existing is an act.” She takes a step forward. Blackwall manages not to flinch; a slow smile spreads across Vivienne’s face. “And here you exist, alone. Whyever could that be?”  


“I travel alone, recruiting. Go for months at a time without seeing other Wardens.” He shrugs as if being stared down by the Court Enchantress herself is no scarier than the darkspawn he fights. “Not much interest, because the Archdemon is a decade dead, and no need to conscript because there’s no Blight coming.” He gestures at the bodies on the ground and explains, “Treaties give Wardens the right to take what we need, who we need. These idiots forced this fight, so I ‘conscripted’ their victims. They had to do what I said, so I told them to stand. Next time, they won’t need me.”  


He finishes, an almost wistful look in his eye, “Gray Wardens can inspire. Make you better than you think you are.” There’s something about the way the reverence he says it with that touches Prompto; it reminds him back home of how people talk about Lunafreya. Even if they don’t acknowledge the will of the Six, and see Regis and Noctis as familiar royalty, they believe in the Oracle, that she cares for them and wants to help. Blackwall sounds the same way; even if the Wardens are somehow at fault, there’s no way Blackwall can be. His belief in what they are’s too genuine to fake.  


Varric leans against the shack and starts fiddling with Bianca. “All well and good, but I’d be real inspired to know where the other Wardens have gone, and why you aren’t with them.”  


Blackwall’s resolve begins to falter. “I don’t know. Weisshapt, perhaps? It’s our citadel in the Anderfels, a ways up north. Perhaps they wanted me there, but the messenger got lost, or plans changed. All I know is that I was prepared to recruit alone for months. Years, even.”  


Noctis groans, his patience wearing thin. “Guess we’ll leave you to that then, if you don’t know anything. Just…let someone know if you hear anything useful, alright?” He turns to leave, trying to remember which direction Redcliffe lies in. They still have to meet with Fiona, after all.  


Prompto loosens his hold on his staff and prepares to follow, but he can’t look away from the crestfallen look that slowly blooms across Blackwall’s face as they turn away. Like he’s done what he can and still let them all down. Prompto knows that feeling all too well. He offers the Warden a sympathetic smile. Blackwall watches him curiously before he takes a deep breath.  


“Wait.” Blackwall strides in front of Noctis to stop him, gathering his authority again as he looks the Prince in the eye. “The Divine is dead, and the sky is torn. Events like this, thinking we’re absent is almost as bad as thinking we’re involved.” He takes a breath, tightens his grip on his shield. “If you’re trying to put things right…maybe you need a Warden. Maybe you need me.”  


Noctis is caught off guard, but he quickly tries to mask it as he thinks. Vivienne and Varric share a look behind him, as if they’re mentally taking bets against each other about if Noctis will accept the offer. For his part, Prompto knows he shouldn’t be getting so attached to this world and it’s people—but dammit, he wants to know more about what these Wardens are, about why pieces of this world seem so similar to his home, how Blackwall manages to fake his own self-confidence like Prompto does but has become a hero anyway.  


“Maybe I do,” Noctis finally answers. He offers his unmarked hand, and grins as Blackwall shakes it. “Welcome aboard, Warden Blackwall. Hope you’re ready to help us parley with some mages.”

* * * 

Ignis can practically smell the rotting boards in the shack as soon as he sees it, caving in on itself atop a forested hill in the rain. “It was around here, you said?”  


“Sure was. We’d hidden some supplies here, and were restocking when the first arrows flew.” Harding points just past the shack to where the fight occurred. “They bound some of our scouts and dragged them away, and killed the rest who didn’t run in time. Except I don’t see the bodies…”  


“Could’ve hidden them if they’re civil,” Iron Bull rumbles, “Or turned ‘em into decorations if they’re not. Easiest way to piss off a good leader is to desecrate his men’s corpses.” He scans the horizon, ready and waiting for another ambush. “Harding, right? Remember anything about their gear?”  


“Most of it seemed fairly light, but well-constructed. Lots of blue and white, no insignias I recognized. No mages among them, least not that I could tell.”  


Iron Bull nods, finding the brief description familiar anyway. “Blades of Hessarian, it sounds like. Only real organized force around these parts. Haven’t dealt with them myself, but I’m told they think they’re doing Andraste’s work by fighting off her enemies.”  


“They must have heard of us, and believe us to be heretics.” Cassandra wipes her wet hair out of her face with the back of her glove. “But if they believe in Andraste as well, perhaps we can come to an understanding.”  


Sera grabs her bow and notches it. “Wanna’ ask ‘em? They’re charging us now if you wanna’ ask ‘em.” Her arrow strikes true before the others even have their weapons ready, splitting a man’s skull as he crests the hill. His blade tumbles out of his hand, lost in the grass as the rest of his comrades charge.  


“This is more like it!” Iron Bull roars as he charges forward, slamming his own body into a warrior and knocking him over before hefting his axe and swinging it into his foe’s skull. “You lot don’t waste time finding trouble, do you?”  


“Or it finds us, one way or another.” Ignis flows into the fray, doing his best to answer arrow fire with daggers even as the rain and fog conspire to ruin his aim. Flames crackle across the battlefield courtesy of Solas, as Cassandra parries a shielded foe and gives Gladio an opening to strike. An archer nearly strikes Iron Bull, only for Sera to hit the arrow out of the sky with her own.  


Sera laughs as the arrows collide in midair. “Elfy! See if you can beat that!”  


“You do remember that you’re also an elf, correct?” Solas shakes his head even as he fires a barrage of magical missiles, knocking a volley of arrows out of the sky in one blow. “Either way, I declare that beat.”  


Sera sticks her tongue out at the mage as the last warrior falls, courtesy of Harding shooting his knees out mid-charge and Iron Bull catching him on his axe. It crackles with energy as the Qunari pries it out of the body, letting the rain wash the blood off the blade. He grins like a berserker right out of the fairytales, even as he asks if everyone’s unharmed. For a spy, Iron Bull is surprisingly full of contradictions, Ignis thinks to himself as he retrieves his blades from the attackers.  


The adviser pauses as he grabs his last dagger. A note, hastily tucked into one of the archers’ pockets. He unfurls it and holds it close as he reads it in a vain attempt to keep it out of the rain.  


“What’s it say? Any drawings on it?” Sera asks as she bounds over, standing on tip-toe to look over Ignis’ shoulder. She pouts seconds later. “Boo, boring.”  


“Only if you call a chance at an audience boring.” It seems to be a message from one of the Hessarian Blades to some sort of leader or mentor figure. He waves the others over to see what they think as he reads the letter aloud. _“It’s not our place to disagree. They’re attempting to set themselves up along the shore, and we have orders. We are the sword, not the hand that wields it. You taught me that. If they’re worthy, let them come with the Mercy’s Crest. The Blades of Hessarian will listen. You will only get yourself cast out—or worse.”_  


“It sounds like the Blades are facing dissent in their ranks. Attacking us must be their leader’s attempt to grasp for control.” When Cassandra looks at the bodies of their attackers, there is a mix of scorn and pity in her eyes. “Harding, Iron Bull, have either of you seen a Mercy’s Crest before?”  


Iron Bull nods, tracing the crests’ silhouette in the air. “It’s been some time, but the design’s pretty simple. Get some serpentstone and a deepstalker hide, and we’ll be in business.”  


Ignis pockets the note and prays the ingredients will not be hard to find. “Then we should make haste. Who knows how long they’ll keep our men alive.”

* * * 

Even if Blackwall doesn’t have much information about the Gray Wardens, he’s already proven himself handy with a sword and shield, and has lurked around the Hinterlands enough that he knows his way around the terrain—and how to avoid the places where the mages and templars tend to clash. Somehow, he hasn’t yet heard about the Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste, so Noctis and Prompto fill him in on what they’re about. He’s understandably skeptical when they explain that they’re from another world—and like so many others, he believes them as soon as Prompto pulls out the camera.  


In exchange, he explains the Gray Wardens to them, and as they grow close to Redcliffe, he explains that the Hero of Ferelden and fellow warden King Alistair came through years ago, rescuing the town from a demon and saving their arl from a wasting disease with the “Ashes of Andraste.” Which, as it turns out, was discovered at the temple where the Breach now resides. Noctis vaguely recalled Leliana mentioning the same thing when they’d first tried to close the Breach.  


“Did you travel with them too?” Prompto asks as they enter Redcliffe, heading to meet Fiona at the Gull and Lantern tavern. “What was this Hero of Ferelden like? Leliana always speaks really highly of her.”  


“I wasn’t in Ferelden at the time,” Blackwall quickly explains, hands up as a show of innocence. “Those who were died, remember, all but the Hero and Alistair. I hail from the Orlesian faction, and I was busy recruiting around there in case the Blight came for us.”  


“And Kirkwall was busy trying to close its borders to all the Fereldens sailing in,” Varric adds, fondly recalling the dubious nature of his home. “Hawke made it, though. Did you know she and her family got flown to the gates by a dragon?”  


Vivienne casts Varric a dubious glance. “I did read ‘The Tales of the Champion,’ but dear Varric, do not mistake your fiction for fact.”  


“So it was technically just the Witch of the Wilds herself transformed into a dragon. Hard enough to find a dragon nowadays that it still counts.” Varric reaches up to elbow Noctis in the side. “Ever heard of the Witch of the Wilds, Flemeth? Keeps poking her head into all the big stories of late; wonder if she’ll show up here? She’s a mage, after all.”  


“If she does, all hope for diplomacy is dead,” Vivienne states gravely. She turns to Noctis with a puzzled look on your face. “Are you quite alright, darling?”  


Noctis blinks as if coming out of a dream. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped. Something itches in the back of his mind, like trying to recall the tune of a childhood lullaby.  


“I’m alright. Just…thinking about our upcoming meeting.”  


“Yeah right, dude. You were totally thinking about fishing; I saw you eyeing that river we passed on the way here.” Prompto winks before flipping through his camera for photographic evidence of Noct’s fishing obsession. Noctis still catches the way his friend’s brow has furrowed, and he’s squinting like he forgot to put his contacts in and the ensuing headache’s starting up. Something’s bugging him to. Something Varric mentioned?  


It doesn’t matter. The gates of Redcliffe open before them, and here come the eyes again, every man and woman and child watching as if the mark were scrawled across Noct’s face instead of his hand. A scout rushes to meet them and tells them in hushed tones that no one is prepared for their arrival, despite Fiona’s invitation. And, more worrying, that Fiona isn’t in charge anymore. Someone else, an elven mage Noctis doesn’t catch the name of, says that Magister Alexius will meet with them shortly, but they can check in with the “former” Grand Enchanter in the meantime.  


As soon as the scouts leave, Vivienne’s lips curl into a brief but powerful sneer. “I knew Fiona was a fool, but making deals with Magisters? I’m honestly impressed she’s managed to survive outside the Circle.” She catches Noctis and Prompto’s confused looks, and explains as she leads them through Redcliffe, “Across the sea lies the Tevinter Imperium, corrupted by slavery and blood magic by the mages who rule it. They are living proof of why mages need appropriate safeguards to protect society, and if that were not enough? It is they who broke into the Golden City centuries ago, corrupting it and returning as the first darkspawn.”  


Prompto makes a face and asks, “If they’re so evil, why does anyone deal with them?” As he does, Noctis finds himself uncomfortably reminded of the Niflheim empire. They only agreed to the truce, to his marriage to Luna for peace, because it was the only way to stop the war before Insomnia could be consumed by war. Perhaps the mages, trying to fight for their freedom, felt just as desperate.  


Varric answers, “From personal experience? Mages are the best at making the worst decisions when they feel trapped.” The dwarf can’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice, even as he corrects himself and adds, “Current company excluded, of course.”  


“We aren’t excluded at all. Magic is danger no matter who wields it.” Vivienne practically glides up the stairs to the Gull and Lantern; Prompto’s face pales until it’s almost the same color as her gleaming white armor. Maybe she doesn’t notice. Maybe she does and knows another small lesson has hit home.  


The sun barely breaks through the windows of the Gull and Lantern. There are a couple lit torches inside, but the heart of the tavern is still dark, and empty save for Fiona and a handful of other mages. Just as before, she does not smile, but now there are shadows under her eyes, head bowed without guards to stand up to. Even Vivienne remarks, “My dear Fiona, you look dreadful! Are you sleeping well?”  


Her tone is cold as before, but tired this time. The regal bearing is gone, like Noct’s father after a long day of politics and maintaining the barrier. “Enough that it should be of no concern to you, Madame de Fer. What is your real reason for coming to Redcliffe?”  


Noctis steps into what little light there is. “Because you asked us to, remember? Back in Val Royeaux.” Is there some sort of code he’s missing or social faux-pas that’s making her hide the meeting? “It’s safe to talk now, these four are all with me and the Inquisition. We’re here to help, since the Chantry won’t.”  


Fiona tries to mask her confusion, but the mages with her are not so controlled. “You must be mistaken. I have not been to Val Royeaux since before the Conclave.”  


Varric looks up at Noct and says, “Sure you weren’t invited by some other emerald-eyed elf in fancy blue mage robes, Inquisitor?”  


“From what I’ve seen so far, that’s not exactly a common sight. And others in the Inquisition saw it too.” Noctis wishes he’d brought Ignis along; he could always smooth out awkward meetings like this. “Look, is this something you’d rather talk alone about? Is that it?”  


Fiona shakes her head, almost fearfully. “I don’t…now that you mention it, I feel strange. But whoever called you here, the situation has changed.” A pause while she gathers her fortitude. “The free mages have already pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium. As one indentured to a Magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you.”  


It was mentioned at the gate, but the others are still taken aback. Even Varric swears, “Andraste’s ass, I’m trying to think of a single worse thing you could’ve done. I’ve got nothing.” There’s a flash of rage over Vivienne’s features, so fast that Noctis barely catches it before it’s smoothed over with a calm face and biting words. Without a word, Blackwall takes position near the doorway and in view of the windows, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Prompto steps closer to Noctis, his brief bout of Crownsguard training kicking in to protect his prince.  


“If it’s such a bad deal, there’s got to be some way out of it.” Without his advisers around, Noctis turns to Vivienne and Varric. “The mages here just need protection, right? Do we have enough forces to offer that?”  


Before they can answer, the door to the tavern swings open again. Blackwall warily steps aside as two figures stride in; both of them are shorter than him and have no visible weapons on hand, but Noctis can feel the crackle of energy from here. Not from the figure in the back, with yellow robes and a youthful face with skin like a wax candle. No, the older man in front of him, dressed in red robes with a hood pulled up that’s reminiscent of dragon horns, that’s the one radiating enough power to make Noct’s mark itch. Despite his robes and clawed gauntlets, he doesn’t necessarily look threatening—his face is prideful, but also worn with lines of worry and stress, like his father’s council as the war with Niflheim grew closer to home. That doesn’t give Noctis any reason to relax.  


“Welcome, my friends! I apologize for not greeting you earlier.” He looks to Fiona expectantly, and not without a hint of smugness.  


She relents, “Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius.”  


“The southern mages are under my command. And you…” Magister Alexius stands in front of Noctis and brings himself to full height, barely taller than Noctis but watching him like a shark. “You are the Prince of the Silver City, yes? The survivor from the Fade?” He looks Noctis over and it’s clear that he sees this stranger, young and inexperienced in his world, as prey. “Interesting.”  


“And you’re apparently the man in charge now, so I’ve got business with you.” If he has to negotiate with a snake to get home—and he’s heard enough snakes in the politicians at home to know what they sound like—then so be it.“You’ve noticed that Breach in the sky? I’m going to get rid of it, but I can’t do it alone. I need the mages’ help.”  


“Then I’m sure we can come to an agreement. After all, I have plenty of mages to spare.” Magister Alexius waves him toward a table. Noctis doesn’t want to follow, but what choice does he have but compromise? Fiona watches him warily, as if his next word might bring the tavern crashing down on top of them. Prompto moves to follow them, but Vivienne places a hand on his shoulder and mutters a few words. Her gaze is sharp, appraising.  


“Felix, would you send for a scribe please?” Magister Alexius asks, gesturing at the man in yellow robes. He affects an almost apologetic tone as he sits down and tells Noct, “Pardon my manners, friend. My son, Felix.”  


The young man bows and hurries away. Noctis thinks he catches a glint in dark eyes that stick out like burning coals in the young man’s pale face. His veins are visible against his skin, and dark—if Noctis doesn’t know better, he’d say the man’s suffering from the early stages of the Starscourge.  


“I am not surprised you’re here,” Magister Alexius continues amiably, as if he and Noctis were old friends. Noct’s heard that tone since he was a child, his opinion holding weight even when he was too small to sit at the council meetings. “Containing the Breach is not a feat that many could even attempt. There is no telling how many mages would be needed for such an endeavor…ambitious indeed.” The Magister’s gaze settles on Noct’s marked hand. “Tell me, are there many mages in the Silver City? I see that one of your peers has the gift…”  


“Not really. Magic’s rare back home. Safer, though. Never heard of anyone turning into a monster from it.”  


“Then you should count yourself lucky that your friend possesses it. It is a power that borders on the miraculous—I myself have spent many years researching it, and still have yet to find its limits.” There’s the hint of a scholar in the magister’s eyes, but its covered up by the forced, amiable smile of politics. “Magic is more widespread here, but it truly isn’t that hard to avoid becoming an abomination. It’s all a matter of will, of proper training and knowledge instead of fear. This is how we learn in Tevinter. But here?” He shakes his head, somehow without dislodging his hood. “Forced to live their entire lives in cramped Circles, fear of a templar’s blade drilled into them from childhood…it is no wonder that the mages here fight for freedom, or turn into abominations in their desperation to escape.”  


“Because blood magic can’t be dangerous if it’s the national pastime,” Varric quips from the chair he’s pulled up at his own table. He cleans Bianca, tightening the strings.  


Magister Alexius turns that forced smile on the dwarf. “And what do you know of blood magic? Your kind can’t even dream.”  


“And damn glad for it. Ever see someone get torn apart and stitched together with blood magic? Or watch a man gut his wife just so he can amp up his own spells? If I could dream, I’m sure I’d see that over and over again, if nightmares are as bad as I’ve heard.” Varric winks, and it’s a miracle he can keep the steel in his eyes out of his chipper voice. “Then again? Maybe you’re used to it.”  


“Do the actions of a few determine the fate of many? Let the Herald decide for himself, if you please.” The Magister returns his attention to Noctis, interlacing the clawed fingers of his gauntlets. “The Tevinter Imperium is the oldest human empire in this world, my friend. Its history is long and yes, at times, bloody. Such a reputation should not color the current reality, now should it? What matters to you is, these mages need our protection, and you need their power. Surely, you’re a reasonable enough man to discuss…”  


He trails off as Felix returns, but the young man is limping badly, clutching his stomach as he lurches toward the table. As soon as Noctis stands up to help, Felix trips on the floorboards and collapses into Noct’s arms. Even as they nearly topple backwards against the table, Noctis notices that clammy as the ill scribe is, his eyes are still alert—and something light falls into the prince’s pocket.  


“Felix!” Magister Alexius is at his son’s side before Noctis can offer a potion. He’s already checking the young man’s pulse as he wraps an arm around him, ready to carry him away. “Are you alright?”  


“I’m fine, father.” Felix shakes his head and pulls away from the both of them, pretending to regain lost strength. “My lord, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”  
“It’s okay. I’ve been there.” Noctis gestures to the brace on his knee; not quite an illness, but he’s accidentally crashed into his friends more than a few times in either world because of it.  


After a moment to decide if he still needs to carry his son, Magister Alexius lets Felix stand on his own before saying, “Come, I’ll get your powders. Excuse me friends—we will have to continue this another time.” The veneer of the wheedling politician melts away as he guides his son toward the exit, one hand floating just behind Felix’s back in case he needs to catch his son. “Fiona, I require your assistance back at the castle.”  


“At once, Magister.” Fiona doesn’t hazard a look back as she and her retinue of fellow mages follow the magister out of the tavern. Felix mutters apologies as he leaves; even if he faked collapsing against Noctis, it was clear that his sickness was still taking hold of him. The Magister declares again that they’ll reschedule their arrangement at a later date. The tavern is soon empty of all but Noctis and his friends again, and feels no safer for it.  


“I’m impressed they still want to deal with us after that,” Blackwall grumbles as he shuts the tavern door. “Were you trying to parley dwarf, or piss ‘em off?”  
Varric shrugs and returns Bianca to her holster. “There’s a lot you can learn about a man by riling him up. And this one? Was doing his best not to get riled.” He leaves his table and strides over to Noctis, gesturing to see his marked hand. “Notice how he never took his eyes off that? Did his damned best to convince you to give ‘Vints a chance?”  
Noctis nods; he’d resisted the urge to remind the Magister ‘eyes up, buttercup’ more than a few times. “You’re saying he needs us more than we need him. Question is, why?”  


To his surprise, it’s Prompto that answers him. “He was talking about experimenting with magic, right? And everyone keeps guessing that your mark is just really weird magic. I’m thinking he wants a chance to…inspect it, you know?” His eyes dart to the others, as if expecting them to argue.  


“He’s a man that clearly worships power more than anything else. Darling, I do believe you’re on the right track.” Now that their guests are gone, Vivienne allows her mask to drop a little more, letting scorn tug at her eyebrows and dance along her fingers. “Whatever his reasons, he is not a man you should compromise with. Push at magic without safeguards, and magic will push back—violently.”  


It’s not that Noctis wants to deal with the magister either; he could never stomach slimy politicians for long, and thank the Six that Ignis could for him. But with the templars out of the picture, the mages might be his only chance at going home. And someone wanted him here, even if Fiona can’t bring herself to remember…  
Noctis reaches into his pocket and pulls out what Felix left during his faked fainting bout. A piece of paper, pale and crisp, the ink just short of smudging from being too wet; this note was just written. “Come to the Chantry…you are in danger.”  


“Glad to know that someone has sense around here,” Vivienne says. “Shall we, Inquisitor?”  


“Of course—lead the way.” It’s time to get to the bottom of this magical mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eheh, sorry for that hiatus there readers; had a deadline to crunch for some original fiction, and hopefully some exciting news on that front soon. Anyway, enjoy the update, and hopefully a return to semi-frequent posting.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to my first full-length fanfic in...at least seven years? Anyway, this project is for fun and practice, and will update whenever I find the time to finish a chapter (I'm usually busy with work and original fiction, and I'm beta-ing this fic myself). But rest assured, it WILL be completed one day, and I hope you all enjoy it in the meantime!


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